A small room in the ward number four
A grave like home to the pulsating corpse:
For forty two years she lay there
With stifled shriek stuck in the throat.
Was it a cry of pain or of fear
Or for help to escape the savage assault.
Unuttered it froze in time's eternal grasp,
And now when the flesh has gone cold,
Would be buried mingled with the ultimate dust
In a state of smouldering dormancy.
For forty two years this small room
Reverberated with unuttered cries of a distressed soul
At transgression of her privacy
By her own erstwhile friends;
Who in the name of tending her
Would shame her even more
Than the savage brute who raped her.
Priding in the nobility of their cause,
And failing to realise the hurt that they caused,
Opposed they the plea for mercy before the court,
When a lady with angelic compassion at heart;
Perturbed at the perpetual agony of the suspended soul
That lay shackled in the arid cage;
Sought the merciful release of distressed soul.
Termination of agony judges refused
Though life in the corpse they could not infuse.
For forty two years the poor soul
Remained in a state of spiritless suspension
A helpless victim mute to the tortuous grind.
For forty two years no one heard her cries wild,
her tears in her stony eyes got dried.
Sham is the pretentious right to life
When life can't be lived and death is denied.
After forty two years of agonising suspension
Let peace be the right of released soul.
Pray that the cries have now ceased, let peace prevail.
Pray that the tormented soul now rests in peace
By herself in her new resting place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem