Torn, moulded and broken succumbed her to despair.
Losing all her endurance, sombre she called herself.
She moaned and cried not by the physical pain,
But by the persecution of the society.
She was marked impure ever since the day she started bleeding,
She was left paranoid yet stayed quiet.
Despondency was reflected through each and every part of hers.
On the spur of the moment,
Her nanny served as an elixir on the wounded soul.
She then walked in an island filled with tranquility,
Concomitantly the voice of her soul and heart matched,
And the salubrious body sang her favourite lyrics.
