Grace was born in a traditional family,
A wishful thinker,
Wanting to have an empowered life,
But her life was horribly short and,
For a limited being like a woman,
Dreams are the forbidden fruit,
That only few have the grit to taste.
One fine day she decided to write,
She had the will and weapon,
But not the crutch from her kin.
During the daytime she would become an obedient girl,
She prayed, cooked, sewed, and nursed her brothers,
It was her everyday ritual,
But when the night approached,
She would wake up,
Her pen would vibrate and her soul would shiver,
For she was writing with zeal and fear,
It was her everyday rebellion.
The muse of poetry was in her favor,
But her bedroom appeared smaller and smaller.
One day her writing was discovered,
The father was to judge this love affair,
He sentenced her daughter to marriage,
“This was a lenient punishment”.
And she was celebrated and served
On the altar of despair,
The muse Calliope wanted her to write,
Grace remained in hiding and she wrote about her dead life.
Womanhood haunted her and,
The Pen was her only delight.
As a woman, she was rewarded with motherhood,
But was never celebrated as an author,
She wanted recognition,
And released her emotions on paper,
Her pen would bleed and this is how she survived through dreadful years.
Sorrowful events befell upon her,
Living in denial was becoming difficult,
Chaos was everywhere,
But the grief was only registered on paper,
Overwhelmed,
She remained quiet, Brave, is she?
When she died drawers rained with ink-filled letters,
Locked in drawers the poetry that was meant to flourish was reeking
Her life was narrated against the brute force of nature,
It was the darkest day in town,
With a huge crowd of mourners,
For it was the death of an author.
By: PRACHI GIRDHAR
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