Oh, hail the prince from the desert sands,
Where ancient stones still tightly clasp
The whispers of those silenced hands—
Daughters are buried before their first gasp.
Times have changed, or so they say,
For they no longer bury in clay,
But finds new ways to hollow hearts,
Leave women ruined, and torn apart.
Such men, draped in gentleman’s grace,
Polished shoes and a well-dressed face,
Hide behind their coat and tie,
As if fabric alone could sanctify.
Oh, the ones who strayed and sinned with pride,
In liquor’s haze and shadows wide—
Now deem a woman's rage as a sign unfit,
While they rebrand themselves as legit.
Laughing once after they tear women down,
Now they smirk beneath their crown.
For they are the saint in a well-fit suit,
While women are the fool who dared refute.
The boys who tried to charm us, cloaked in wealth,
With rare perfumes and Banarasi silk for stealth,
They think can fill the hollow with what money can buy,
Blind to the battles raging in our weary eyes.
For women, who asked for comfort, gentle hands to hold,
To shield and soothe when nights grew cold,
Found ourselves unheard, our voices dismissed,
As they clung to wealth's illusion, true care was unmissed.
The ones, who could not read the strain on our faces,
Bound by status, blinded by grace,
Thinks we craved their glittering show,
While our mind fought storms they’ll never know.
Let them cheer for their noble guise,
The "reformed" man they idolize—
While we, the unfit, burn within,
Stripped of zeal by their perfect sin.
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