Unfreedom

What's in her eyes?

Tears of hope and dismay?

Ain't distinct perhaps,

Her cries reverberate her agony

Not son ... not daughter... not in between

For a mother, it's just her child

She carries in her womb,

Feeds and nourishes

For months nine or less.

Cords that connect to her

Restrains to rescue

Those unborn fairies

Who are not let out to live...

Her ailing body leaves scars

In her mind and soul as well.

That she's a mother to the nation

Young and free-spirited

Progressive and proactive

Yet she's burdened with

Her infallible attempts 

To selflessly nurture and care

For her children, young and old.

She ain't seeking for freedom anymore

On contemplation of a mirage

That exists no more

 In the dry desert of nonexistence

That displaces truth for post-truth,

That interprets unfreedom as independence

And expects her children to rejoice

With flamboyant applause.