She is the hostile bugle of war,
She is the pristine dove of peace.
She is the scorching Summer heat,
She is the soothing evening breeze.
She is the life-giver of milk, She is the clarion call for blood.
She is the rustling autumn leaf,
She is the fragrant vernal bud.
Life for her is an endless dichotomy,
She solicits peace, but it is war she must implore to guard her dignity.
She seeks to calm his brutal force, reason with his unreasonable need.
She strives to tame his wild rage, contend with his quenchless greed.
Alas to no avail her pleas, war must have his egoistic way.
His caprices are the rule of law, her principles mere child’s play.
When all fervent cries die mid-air,
When Virtue hangs his head in shame.
When left alone to fight her war,
She becomes the fiery ‘Draupadi’.
She kills all that is gentle in her , destroys her soft femininity,
To save her honour and vanquish evil,
She invokes her divinity.
Let piety declare war on the impure and the vile,
Let the darkness of ignominious infirmity recede,
And the dawn of victorious pride smile.
With severed ties and impaired moments,
the bloody bateground is wrought.
Broken dreams and haunting cries are all that’s left of the battle fought.
The gory sight of flesh and blood
of her own flesh and blood abandoned to decay and rot.
All she had wanted was the restoration of her lost glory,
Destruction was not what she had sought.
The price of peace is the calamitous war,
When had she ever known or thought.
To life’s profound questions,
there are no easy answers.
Time plays its eternal music,
While we are mere dancers.
Unable to breathe in the acrid air, jjjjj
She shudders and turns her face away.
“What have I gained?” she searches her soul,
Perhaps time will answer, for tomorrow is another day.