She's been slipping

In and out of consciousness.

Drips and needles

Through the ruins of her surface.

A miracle might save her mortality

But her soul's long been dead.

She was going to the office

In bright daylight

Wearing a salwar-kurta

Avoiding the tights.

The chances of victim-blaming

Were bleak.

A classic crime

But with reasons, you couldn't critique.

The offenders will be tried.

Shouts of justice will be cried.

And after a month or so

The "news" will subside.

Ma sits beside her bed

Waiting for her return, failing to realize

That she'd run away in her sleep

And, God, I hope to a paradise!