Her pyre: This is another short poem that I wrote. The mood in which I wrote this poem was “the death of a transwoman”. Death could be physical (that unfortunately is happening every now and then), or it could also represent the forceful killing of the femininity (a mental or an emotional death). But ‘her truth’, which is also the truth of any other women, can in fact, never be erased.

Also, I think the beauty of this poem is that one can also relate it to any other situation too. So allow any emotion or situation to evoke.

HER PYRE

Her trek is hard; and laborious to tread.
All she holds on to, is a piece of thread.
A thread that binds her, and ties her to her truth.
She falls, she crawls; wounded and uncouth.

Humans appear in guise of the Gods.
They promise to save her against all odds.
The lift her from the ground; and promise her bread.
But with trickery and deceit, they cut away her thread.

She cries and she laments. She begs them for her yarn.
Mercilessly she is pushed; inside a shed of barn.
Her truth doesn’t sway, but remains steady as a rock.
It bears her pain; and the numbness of her shock.

O treacherous humans! Wicked, callow and cruel.
She did not deserve this. Won’t you vouchsafe her, at least, a fair duel?
You first make her. Then break her. Then blaze up the fire.
You burn up her thread. And light up her pyre.

But her truth is immortal, and lives on, however.
It belongs to her tribe - women; forever.

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