IS ( / Dhaka, Bangladesh)

The Cry

For seven days they feasted on her flesh; ‎
On the eighth, she fled to the military for
Protection; on the twelfth she filed a case
That came to nothing. People would say she
Was lucky not to have been murdered; some
Would say she was unlucky not to have
Been murdered: villagers would recollect
That stigma far into her lonely life.‎
Did no one hear her scream that awful night? ‎
Her cries for help were like my cries for help
These past twelve years of democratic rule: ‎
I heard her call twelve years ago, while all
Around me thought it was the ululation
Of freedom by our women; listen! how they cry! ‎

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