The killer : It or Them ?

In the country's heart, maybe she lost her path,
naive, afraid and stuck,

her soul taken and slaughtered in the dark,

by someone inhuman, maybe monstrous, surely barbaric,
struggling to prove to be a man;
hope it knows, perdition awaits very close.

Left rather thrown, some street corner before unknown,
miles away from what she calls home,
the winter morning hard to breathe,

the scared body waning in grief,
not a shirt on her back, not a hand to aid but eyes to stare,

trying to get up, weeping her tears,
the gaze butchering her ounce by ounce,
the worst nightmare was lived and found.

Hearing the crowd,
making the wounds bleed out,
vandalized and torn away,
judged not helped,
the victim turned into a suspect.

Walking by the lanes, purgatory makes its way,
burning the city of  hopes helplessly alive,
seeking justice, her cast-off vagina was interrogated:
marked as untouchable, her spirit unreachable and character unlovable,
the liberal hands that ripped her apart and bourgeois ears that ignored her screams are safely asleep,
being punished for the enormity she didn't commit.

The body which once belonged to her ended up being a social possession to be deemed upon,
wondering whether to mend her tattered clothes, broken soul, shattered integrity or crushed stature,
the timid victim,
perished in her home.


                                                                         -Himanshu Narang