Irony

She would run to her workplace, outrunning hunger.
She fought her way out through her children’s unwary eyes.
She would sell her sweat for a few pieces of rectangular paper,
And her sporadic smiles for her family’s succor.

A drunken husband and the bottles of destruction,
She struggled bare-minded to achieve a pseudo destination.
The days would enclose children’s demands within
And nights engulfed her needful and desperate screams.

Words were overrun and tears were restrained;
decrepit bones and muscles that had sprained.
She abstained from frolic and refrained from jubilance,
Ironically, she was never free but always independent!



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com