March-8

 

..

.International Women’s Day – March 8

 

A Century of Our Struggle!

by Surjeet Kalsey

 

100 yeas of struggle:

women of the world marching on

continuously marching on

and keeping their struggle alive

for equality, respect and dignity!

Yet the destination is far far away

there were thorns and stones on the path!

Marching through centuries on the rough road

our hearts ache and our feet bleed with blisters.

 

Somewhere on the way we are lost!

As if we fail to feel the pain of another 

of our own and stand against each other

making to feel insulted and ridiculed

in front of others in the crowd.

Still marching on the never ending path

women hold hands and many banners

marching endlessly together!

Sometimes we feel that we fail

ourselves, our own struggle, and

we ourselves squeeze our own blisters!

Shamelessly, nothing moves forward

we are still on the margin, we are

still being stoned, still being raped

the violence has not stopped

seems as if we have failed ourselves

and we are blamed for. The society,

the history, the trends, the attitudes

are still chanting Manu Simriti….

A century long history of our struggle

will continue to end our sufferings

Our  sacrifices will continue to get freedom

from prejudices and offerings of humiliation.

Struggle will continue, March on! March on!

Voiceless Women

by Surjeet Kalsey

 

Yes, they are still sitting there

quietly waiting for someone

someone will come

and inscribe their fate

on their foreheads

or a stream of passion

would sprung up from within

or a straw would become a pen.

 

Women are sitting in the house

as if they are sitting on the street

without its floor without its door

but walls are still their retreat

 

Voiceless women live in this house

within these four walls

without its door, without its floor

quietly they wait for someone

would come and spread out

earth under their feet.

 

The tale they wanted to tell

that has become aged, stopped.

The tale is circling within circle

from ages and their voice is not heard

their eyes are lit like lamps

on their wrinkled faces – waiting

waiting and waiting someone will come.

Their story is being written in their wrinkles

they will bury their story with their bodies

or a straw would become a pen

or they would remain voiceless even in this age!

United We March!

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