This early marriage
Makes me old
Before fruits of my time ripens.
I am a broken statue
Of a young persona.
I carry life,
But I am too short
To reach the sky
Of Joy.
My fate is
An erasing composure.
I have been lost
In the kitchen
Of never moving mountains
Of pain.
A child I am
Merely a child
With childish dreams.
I bleed excessively
In the hospital bed,
A child giving birth to a life
I chime the death bells,
Risking two lives.
What age-old sermon you preach
And call yourself
A society?
Look through the lamp
Of your soot
And educate yourself
And become a healing marvel.