They tell her she’s going to hell,
For all the hurt she has
Gone through.
They tell her she’s going to burn,
For something somebody
Else, somebody cruel did.
They tell her she’s going to rot in the pits of Tartarus,
For not taking responsibility of something
She has no duty towards.
They tell her she’s going to hell,
Because she doesn’t have a choice.
For she is, after all,
A petite young girl,
Getting her nails done every month;
Wearing a pink sari with
Her pallu flying over her shoulder,
Her silky hair in braids adorned
With little red ribbons–
What could
She do
About it?
They say, “After all the sins she’s
Committed, even hell would be
Reluctant to accept her.”
Well of course they would.
For they fear her.
A petite young girl, holding
waves of compressed seas within–
Waves that could
Devour kingdoms and
Silence all
those within.
Her nails, as sharp
As knives–
Could rip out every
demon’s heart and
Soul,
Seize the blood
With the tips of her nails and
Drop every bead
Into her awaiting mouth.
Her pink sari on fire,
The blazing pallu lighting
Cities on fire as it
Flows behind her shoulder–
Starving for justice,
Starving for revenge.
Her silky hair flying in
The howling winds,
Strangling those who dare
Defy her.
Those red ribbons now
A deep maroon, stained with
Blood and gore.
Why shouldn’t hell be afraid of her?
She looks like the lightest breeze
On a summer morning, but
She commands the demons and
Devours their souls.
She looks like the gentlest ripple
On the ocean, but
She tames three-headed hounds.
She looks like nothing that could
Spark a flame,
But
It’s Hellfire that she’s made of.