Midnight hours and worldly sounds were dying,
The moon peeped through cloudy sky as if it is spying,
Thump, thump, there was knock on her door,
Her sunken eyes lit up once more.
Those knocks were a welcome invasion,
To put an end to many nights of starvation.
She dressed quickly and fittingly for the occasion,
To sell her tears with devotion.
Bereft of emotion, she goes through motions,
She is an essential part of thirteen days celebration,
Tears, wails and shrieks come out without hesitation,
Though with heaven bound souls she had no relation.
She cries, she screams and she grieves,
For some free meals and some rupees,
Sitting and wailing in those gloomy grooves,
Making all those fake mourning moves.
She had cried enough tears to solve any water crisis,
For all those lecherous men lived in vices,
Those men who need borrowed tears for salvation,
May I call, it the wretched society’s perversion.
She supplies tears for the fate of those and of her own,
Hoping those wails reach God up above in the horizon,
She will cry for all but who will cry over her pyre?
Who will be Rudali for her once to lend their tears?