In a land of praises that I’ve already sung,
Lies a distinct hill- dark and young.
Aphotic and murky because the sun is far-flung,
Callow and crude because the wisdom is wrung.
That red roof which points to heaven,
Calls for help, the victims lie within.
They are like you and me,
But benefits not the rose, but the thorn of family.
She was married off as soon as she was ripened
To a man triple her age, of course she was frightened!
His grey hair mortgaged his love for her,
The collapse took place when she begot a daughter.
The angelic face was his tattoo of disgrace,
He couldn’t love her for she had her mother’s face.
Abandoning them could’ve been easier,
But instead he preferred to stay and torture….
Day in and day out, a drunken ol’ man was all he chose to be,
Spitting and cursing his way home dragging his knees.
When hate brimmed seeing his bloodline a daughter,
His rage ruptured to beat the mother.
He bragged about his young mistresses to show he could do better,
But never brought them home for want was one and society another.
A man domesticated by society,
Yet ruined by the same entity.
Years passed-
He was alone and forlorn, stagnant in bed.
Who else to look after him in age if he never had a son?
Bruised old man, found his aid in the selfless care of two abused women.
He shut his eyes and his soul drifted further,
But a monster inside him still wished he never had a daughter.
-Regina Gurung
Power, Poem, Prose 