Her daughters...

Our mother is independent
Her daughters aren't.

The sun burns the skin
Beneath,lies complete dark
The day brings in
A fresh struggle for life.

The morning newspaper,witness to
Fresh scars of yesterday.

Somewhere,a daughter
Drowned in vermillion
Burns in the pyre of the price
Her parents couldn't meet.

One more of a life
Turns dust,even before a breath
A daughter is a curse,they said
A mother's tears,unheard,torn apart.

Yet another daughter returns home
Soiled in society's puddle
Washes off the dirt on her
No rain,enough,to cleanse the kind.

Our mother is independent
Her daughters aren't.....