Foreign touch on a maiden’s skin,
Feels like a vandalized violin.
Though embraced by trusted kin,
Truth is always embedded in.
Her beauty and grace everyone loathes,
While she wraps herself in paper clothes.
Her dignity fully shattered and broke,
With every reminiscence, her throbbing stokes.
With her compelling attempts to heal,
Modest clothes she wore like a shield.
Never thought, before men, she would have to kneel,
Until unarmed to the battlefield.
Heartfelt attempts to lift the vintage hue,
Tidied dress and well-tied shoe.
Though equity came to view,
Why did she still distinguish the pink and blue?
By – Umayma Rahemin