Her Voice, Her Fight

“Her Voice, a Broken Wing”

In a quiet town beneath the moon,

Where shadows fall and never swoon,

A girl was born with dreams so wide,

But dreams, they told her, must not glide.

She played with dolls, not by her will,

She watched the boys climb every hill.

“Girls don’t run,” they said with frowns,

“Stay quiet, wear long sleeping gowns.”

She asked her mother, eyes so deep,

“Why must my voice be buried steep?”

Her mother cried, but did not speak,

A voice grown small, a heart grown weak.

In school, she raised her hand with hope,

But each time, the boys would grope

The right to speak, to lead, to shine,

While she was told, “That path’s not thine.”

She dreamed of books, of stories bold,

Of women brave, not bought or sold.

But tales they gave were few and thin—

The princess trapped, the prize to win.

Her body grew, and eyes would leer,

And whistles filled her with cold fear.

She walked with keys tight in her hand,

Afraid of those who might demand.

At sixteen, silence wrapped her tight,

When someone stole her voice one night.

She cried, she screamed, but none would hear,

They blamed her clothes, they blamed her fear.

“Why did you walk alone so late?

Why trust the world? That’s just your fate.”

She learned to shrink, to fold her frame,

To carry guilt, though not her shame.

The law was blind but not for her,

It weighed her pain, then chose to err.

“Not enough proof,” the judges said,

While she lay still, her spirit dead.

She met more girls with eyes like rain,

Each held a story soaked in pain.

One lost her youth to early vows,

A child in sari, dreams in shrouds.

Another cried for schools she missed,

For books that never touched her wrist.

One worked all day, was paid in dust,

While men took rest and mocked her trust.

They whispered truths in rooms of night,

Of hands that hurt, of dreams that fight.

Each tale, a thread in woven cloth,

Of screams and silence, fire and froth.

Yet in this dark, a small flame rose,

A light that shook the heavy throes.

A girl stood up and dared to say,

“I will not let them steal my day.”

She marched with voice that cracked and cried,

For every woman forced to hide.

She shouted names they tried to bury,

She spoke of wounds they called too scary.

They mocked her march, they jeered her name,

They called her wild, they called her flame.

But still she walked with feet so sore,

Because she knew what she was for.

She fought for schools, for safer streets,

For law to stand on firmer feet.

She fought for choice, for equal pay,

For freedom’s light to meet her day.

And others came, some young, some old,

With stories whispered, shouted, told.

Each voice, a chisel on a wall,

That once was high, but now might fall.

For every woman told to hush,

Another rose in growing rush.

They spoke in courts, in songs, in art,

They healed each other, heart by heart.

One girl drew wounds with colored ink,

Another danced on ruin’s brink.

One wrote a poem in silent rage,

Another burned her shame-filled cage.

Still, pain was there like winter wind,

And many dreams stayed trapped and pinned.

For every law, a loophole waits,

For every right, ten iron gates.

In many lands, the fight is long,

The weak are hurt, the loud called wrong.

Some vanish still for words they say,

Some bleed alone, then fade away.

But hope, it grows in stubborn soil,

It rises slow from bitter toil.

And every woman, scarred or still,

Holds in her chest a sacred will.

To walk for those who cannot move,

To speak for those who must not prove.

To light a path so others see,

That chains can break, and minds be free.

No, not all pain will disappear,

And justice still walks far, not near.

But change begins when one voice dares,

To break the dark, to climb the stairs.

So let her rise, with tear and bruise,

Let her pick paths she wants to choose.

For she is not the weaker kind,

She is the storm, the flame, the mind.

And when you see her eyes look low,

Remember all she’s had to know.

She is not lost, she is not small—

She bears the weight, and still stands tall.

So write her name, not in disguise,

But carved in stone, beneath the skies.

Her rights are not a gift or plea—

They are her breath, her blood, her key.

And when at last the world is fair,

And she walks free with flowing hair,

The songs will rise from every shore:

“She fought, she bled, but she’s no more

A girl in chains behind closed doors—

She is the voice the world ignores