A little fascinated by the globe,
Plaything, she lost and groped.
Rummaged through her many toys
Vexed with them, cavalier chides
A little doll under the bed,
Missing hair, eyes and leg.
Looked to her quite dead.
Satiated by the poor thing.
Traded it with her gullible kin.
Sometimes this child lives inside of me.
Loosing God’s precious gifts.
Oblivious of the other beings .
Trivial dreams and perpetual greed.
Pursues things she has never seen.
Thought of putting the child to sleep.
Stealing my life, cutting deep.
Stands outside watching burning streaks.
Cries aloud when pain has peaked.
Wounded soul on a desolate lane.
Out in the world to share the pain.
Nobody listens as it’s not time.
For them to witness their own crime.
Now she has no roof on top.
Kills her friend, takes her shop.
Hence gets punished by the law.
Confined in a cell, to find her flaw.
So I put the child to sleep.
Before she’s forsaken by the God in me,
To the perils and the deuce for keep.
Shraddha Srivastava studied commerce from Delhi University and also creative writing through the British Council. Currently, she is doing her Masters in English.