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The Silent Storm

A confession by pregnant prostitute, on aborting her unborn daughter (female foeticide) I fought a battle, To find some earth For you to flower, Of blossom and Spring I dreamt Feeling your tender seedlings Wounds, blood and Abuse With a piece of ground I got On a cracked soil And sweat to water A dry abandoned stem with no soul No color, no vigor Why should you grow? Yes, I chose for That brutal storm efface you forever To let you bloom as the beautiful, Only in my dreams to ponder Murdered with tears, By your own mother © Meenakshi M Singh
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