Illusions Poem by Ila Manish

She lives in a two-faced world,
In a mirror, an illusion, out of which She never shall rise,
Bound by the shackles of a vulturous Society,
Confined by archaic, ritualistic piety.

We call her fearless and brave,
And yet She remains bogged down by the terrors of love,
Rising out of this mirror - this virtual world
Only to be pulled in again.

And if She dares to say no - to rebel or to fight,
That story's a violent echo - futile in all its pain.
Her blood spilt on the very roads we walk through,
Her honour, a myth put in eloquent words devoid of action.
Her respect, a double-edged blade used to stab her.
Her anguish - a ''self-inflicted'' wound.

'It's your fault, ' they tell her,
For wearing a short dress ten metres from home
For walking alone at night in a country She is supposed to call her own,
For fighting against Society's rules and standing up for herself
For failing to be another plastic model of the 'perfect woman'
Displayed on Society's dust-laden shelves.

Her moral correctness blemished by her choices,
Her body and suffering, a topic tabooed by Society,
Her life, her clothes, her work, her words,
All mere reflections, mere standards to judge her 'worth'.
Oscillating between anger, despair, fear and fearlessness -
A pendulum swinging on the face of Time,
In a desperate attempt for something Society disallows.
And yet how can this be?
I thought She was part of this Society...