The hand is moored, into and beyond the rails,

Perspiration throughout the body has ceased, 

The time for rumination has gone,

As defunct and departed your soul may seem,

With postulation of self-made notions of grandeur,

Prepossessed by the whim of vacillation,

The deadening shackles that lay,

Bound with hopes of emancipation and premonitions,

Of and, from the illusion

That all is not lost,

Albeit, in that superannuated evanescent moment,

You remember, 

The presage, of that oppressor,

That made you admit,

Your disdain as weak,

The thought of which rebuked all abnegation,

With cursory from the wry,

Of the agony, torment and affliction 

When right is where your heart was at,

Just when the lines seemed blurry, 

And resentment had become your pique,

Of the heart that was once calm,

simple yet full of self-infliction,

You do this, because you feel domineered, 

Cheated, resentful and full of disdain,

That has been caused by the pain.

You realize how the perpetrator wasn’t the only one at fault,

Blame lies with the ones that sought to protect you,

But, you…


For a minute,


You’re still in speculation

Of the wrongs you may have sought to wright (write & right)


With the epoch, having you at the centre.

People prove that it will be they who will resent her (you)

Not to the ones that sought to hurt her, 

You pluck up the courage, One.

Last time, not with hopes of redemption 

But with the morals that bind us,

And to your shock

The crowd goes fierce,

You submit yourself to the rage that has enkindled your soul,

On a fire that that is wending through your hand,

Wending, slowly steadily into your heart,

breaking through the hope it had preserved.

That was broken not by, the action itself

But society’s inaction

That has caused you to take the lasso in your hands,

That have been strengthened, 

With the stripping of the entirety that makes a man,

woman or for that matter a third.

And ultimately,

With some thought about right or wrong,

Vengeance or self-righteous,

The bigger person or the degenerate,

The victim or the reason,

The hanging rope is smeared, 

With blood and tears of all kinds,

From and to the ones that tragedy binds,

People said it was barbaric, unjust and cruel

That he was hanged till he was dead, 

It’s wrong they said,

While life is ebbing out of him,

Let him die in peace,

So that peace may be yours 

Jasmann Singh Narang, K.R Mangalam World School, Vikaspuri


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