Burning in flames,
The dailys and weeklys
With the cries of the innocents,
The tellys simulcasting the stamped extremities,
Of a soul, we call Women.
Crushed beneath the savage desires of the lousy men.
A girl, who once aimed of the skies,
How could have she known,
Jeopardy awaited on her way back home.
That she’ll be served as a bait to the lust,
And rumpled under the night’s wickedness.
What has become of the world?
Stained with the blood of the victims
Drenched with the tears of the kins.
Her dignity ripped into fragments,
Sliced into intimidated Self, murdered to death.
Let there be justice to the slaughter’s of her soul,
Let the women not be weighed,
Let the morals not cast itself into psyche,
And she be treated as the epitome of mankind.