I walk through the paddy field and
sing songs of the mountain,
Unaware, innocent strain of
freedom like a clear fountain,
From you, from him, from his grip
and his peek,
I long to be free: like a bird, I
seek.
But, you won’t leave me, will you?
You won’t let me BE. I want to be
ME.
A ‘me’ whom I can call my own, my
being, my smell and my blood.
And you still poke fun at me and
say, “Women are born to level to dust.”
May I know from where you got this
part?
Do you still think, ”Am I always
going to be hurt?”
I know my part yet I sing my
silence.
And you shall see, my monstrous
glance,
The day when I will come as kali,
And cut away your phallus of which
you lure lust,
Your cabalistic desires will have
no mercy at my slashing sickle,
It will be gushed with your dirt,
your lost bloodline!
And your papered locks will
forever be soiled with clothed red pickles,
My centres will widen and let flow
an army,
Of Amazon warriors, of like you
never heard!
And the poses you give will be
roses all away,
I implore thee try and mess my
Grecian nose,
And live to see next day no more!
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