It was, one of those, spells of spring
When the roses, bled with, fall’s yearning
My girl, had turned ten, or something…
The purest pearl, in my, rosary string!

Why a, solitary gardener, had to bear
The quandary, of his, nightingale’s shame
When she, rushed to me, with a, bleeding fear
I sighed, “Why a, woman, you became…!!!”

With piety’s tears, whom once, I’d bathed
Was an, estranged womanhood, for some man
To keep, the faith, in a dream, unscathed
I asked, her aunt, “Would you, carry the can!”

And I, freed her, from, girlhood’s birdcage
To bathe, in the, blood of, love’s melee
Still, fills me with, blissful outrage
My Daughter’s, Very First, Menstrual Day!

© 2019 Vikas Chandra