the amnesty

Placing the receiver back to cradle he tries to gauge me

“My sister took a dump because she was dumped,”

He clarifies

Silence glaringly flouts and wails,

“Does it benefit you to any extent?”

The air is too hard to heal,

My eyes stay glued until he turns the corner;

Summer is approaching,

Pushing the pen I lose sight of my dreams,

Yet again

A needle of time is cloyingly turned up and harrowed

For romance,

Closed off houses crumple

Underneath the noisome clobber,

And the hush-hush ink of novelists lie dormant

In stigmatised women from further afield

Who paddle their own canoes,

The daunting brand of victimhood

Scares the hell out of blue stockings

Racing against the clock and awaiting

The abolishment of slavery

After the amnesty has been granted a long time ago,


Are never, choosers

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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