The thin fragile glass of the dead of the night’s dire silence
Rattled to smashed pieces by the ear splitting shrillness of her frantic scream
Like a sharp piercing sound of a train whistle in a tunnel
Oh! She hysterically yells out a yelp
Backfiring are only echoes and no help coming
Her voice seems to be engulfed by the hungry yawning space
And got dissolved by the solvent air, its acid saliva
And reaches not to the people

The next morning I see her
Bruises and scars dressing her face
A face repulsed by grace and solace
With her clothes gory and ripped

With perennial tributaries of tears
Tears that gurgle as they cascade down the face
Irrigating the flourishing evergreen field of decaying future
A field that rustles gleefully in a breeze of anxiety
The decaying future watched by the people plodding into cancerous leprosy

With stunted weeds of life
Burnt by this perpetual hell
Yet they still hover persistently in the rankled brains
Drought-stricken and withered up
With a dizzy groggy hope for a green life

Then night approaches again
And she recalls the pathetic lyrics of the rhythm she is gonna sing
Help! Help! Help!
Yet no help comes