Broken Wings

Her broken wing,

Makes her cling, 

Her soul was still alive, 

Wanted to survive,

Sound of shattering dreams, 

Echoing when she leans, 

The judgment, 

Which made her wings clip on the go. 

Is the one who made her walk, but not never to stalk. 

They are the creator of her spirit, 

Was unknown with the low-rank script. 

She was a raw clay, 

Was a pure heart in every grey. 

Was armature to play. 

Child marriage made many dreams of angels crushed like raw hay. 

Innocence buried in the name of ray. 

Mere age like a blossoming bud, 

No one there to take any action on the brutal killing of childhood cud. 

In the age of playing with dolls,

Roaming around to take the pledge of tolls. 

She was given a bridal attire, not for her doll but for her to get wrapped up in the shimmering shawl. 

Was given a lesson on all the house cores,

Rather than let her wings flap in full swing. 

Her small delicate hands were forced to kneed a flour. 

Wash all the utensils in the term of her chore. 

Her broken wings are looking to flap once again, 

A mere age of playing around is crushed in the name of rituals, 

In the name of just being a girl child which is no wonder so crucial. 

Child marriage is like building a whole tower on wet ground, 

Which is just heading towards to demolished soon rather able to hold all the life's round. 

Her wings are broken but not her soul, 

Once given a small hope, her wings will gather all the scopes. 

Because she knows she is broken but beautiful by witnessing all the brutality of life. 

She roars!