Her Wrong Deeds, His Goodness

Her Wrong Deeds, His Goodness
The old man at the banks of River Sagana
   is whipping the wife
and shouting to those fetching water
   his goodness and er wrong deeds

He strikes and strikes the unweaved head
    wife until wounds appear
in his hand, her tears and blood
   her heart raining a thousand memories

Words which sores her innocent heart
   bruising her now writhing face
what a fate must she go through?
   she kneels on icicling sand and sobs- bitterly

And the man, angry as a beast, leans against a rock
     exhausted, sweating, fidgeting, purged-
scorns her as ignoble, disgrace and undeserving
    well, it's o'er now, disowning her

Albeit, she has got wont
   to the beatings every dawn and dusk
unspoken, of an agony she chose not- maybe
      but she has had to bear, no choice

in his righteousness, sickened by her 'sins'
      goes home, ways foul
an empty room, no cooking
       worse than the blows, whipping, ticks and laments.

 

 

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world
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