ANGEL
“A whore,” “a woman of loose character”
they call her.
“No moral,” “no conscience,” “no shame”
they say of her.
They cast discerning glances her way;
Heavily made-up face, blood red lipstick
A mini-skirt that mothers would forbid their daughters wear
A deep neckline that displayed too much bosom
A cheap cigarette placed between her sensuous lips.
They see enough to send her to hell
Hungry to condemn, eager to collect the stones
That would be hurled at her.
They fail, however, to notice
How her eyes were always lowered
Her voice was so meek it was just a whisper
Her prayers were said in the most secret of places.
Had they taken the time to listen
Had they taken the time to really look
They might have heard her muffled screams of terror
They might have seen
The look of fear and pain in her eyes
Her struggles in vain, to escape
From the malicious grasp of him
Who is forcing himself upon her
A child not yet thirteen, a child not yet nubile
A child whose earnest pleadings for him to stop
Were turned a deaf ear to.
In their haste to lead her to her Calvary
They do not remember of her
How she once was a child full of innocence and dreams.
~~~
A LETTER TO YOU
There I was, trying to write you a poem. You, who have been my muse for so long. I sat at my desk by the window, from where I can see the starlit night so beautiful. I remembered how you would sit beside me, silent, so you would not disturb me as I write.
I tried to write my first line, tried to put my feelings into words. I wanted to tell you in verse, how I found myself, through you. You, who have been so precious; my air, my water, my sun.
My hands shook as I wrote your name. I had meant your name to be the first word of my poem, my poem for you. The profoundest of thoughts in my mind, I but failed, to put in verse. I could not write beyond your name.
That was last night. Here I am this morning, at the same desk. It is seven, and I have just finished my red tea. I wish you were here. We would have been so happy, so satisfied.
Now, I have to put this letter on your grave, with a red rose.
PS: I still have a little black flag on the window.
Lalsangliani Ralte lives in Aizawl, is a student of English literature, and an avid football fan. She loves poetry and hopes to have her works published someday.
“A whore,” “a woman of loose character”
they call her.
“No moral,” “no conscience,” “no shame”
they say of her.
They cast discerning glances her way;
Heavily made-up face, blood red lipstick
A mini-skirt that mothers would forbid their daughters wear
A deep neckline that displayed too much bosom
A cheap cigarette placed between her sensuous lips.
They see enough to send her to hell
Hungry to condemn, eager to collect the stones
That would be hurled at her.
They fail, however, to notice
How her eyes were always lowered
Her voice was so meek it was just a whisper
Her prayers were said in the most secret of places.
Had they taken the time to listen
Had they taken the time to really look
They might have heard her muffled screams of terror
They might have seen
The look of fear and pain in her eyes
Her struggles in vain, to escape
From the malicious grasp of him
Who is forcing himself upon her
A child not yet thirteen, a child not yet nubile
A child whose earnest pleadings for him to stop
Were turned a deaf ear to.
In their haste to lead her to her Calvary
They do not remember of her
How she once was a child full of innocence and dreams.
~~~
There I was, trying to write you a poem. You, who have been my muse for so long. I sat at my desk by the window, from where I can see the starlit night so beautiful. I remembered how you would sit beside me, silent, so you would not disturb me as I write.
I tried to write my first line, tried to put my feelings into words. I wanted to tell you in verse, how I found myself, through you. You, who have been so precious; my air, my water, my sun.
My hands shook as I wrote your name. I had meant your name to be the first word of my poem, my poem for you. The profoundest of thoughts in my mind, I but failed, to put in verse. I could not write beyond your name.
That was last night. Here I am this morning, at the same desk. It is seven, and I have just finished my red tea. I wish you were here. We would have been so happy, so satisfied.
Now, I have to put this letter on your grave, with a red rose.
PS: I still have a little black flag on the window.
Lalsangliani Ralte lives in Aizawl, is a student of English literature, and an avid football fan. She loves poetry and hopes to have her works published someday.
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