Who Tied Those Empty Cradles On A Tree Top?
Hands stretched open “she doctor” left.
Behind her follows a thousand hands.
Tiny bodies who got terminated,
even before natural birth and death.
We never saw sun shine, earth or sky,
neither moon nor shine of stars.
Embryo of our dreams got shattered,
plucked from womb of infidelity.
Floating with a scalpel you chopped,
counted our heads as souvenirs.
Creating a mansion by our bones,
did you not live an empty life?
Here we pity your helpless plight.
Our souls swing tied on a tiny cradle.
In those barren wombs we lie dry.
As fried out seeds of hypocrisy.