In a village where anguish silently screams,
A girl’s battle unfolds, drenched in painful streams.
Her body, a battleground, besieged by fate,
Menstruation’s arrival is a cruel twist of hate.
Within her innocent frame, chaos unfolds,
As crimson rivers flow, like secrets untold.
In the depths of her being, an ache takes hold,
A torment unspoken, a story yet bold.
Invisible chains shackle her tender soul,
As society’s whispers taunt and take their toll.
Taboos like thorns pierce her youthful bloom,
Reducing her worth, casting her into gloom.
Her dreams suffocate in a shroud of despair,
Silenced by traditions, suffused in the air.
Her voice, a mere echo lost in the night,
Trapped in a realm where darkness finds delight.
She bleeds in silence, her pain unexpressed,
In rustic solitude, her tears are suppressed.
No tender embrace to soothe her weary frame,
Just aching solitude, a familiar refrain.
With each crimson tide that stains her core,
Her essence drained, her spirit feels sore.
From laughter and joy, she is cruelly torn,
As agony and shame become her dawn.
Her days marred by anguish, her spirit, a wail,
As she battles isolation, a relentless gale.
In secluded corners, she finds her retreat,
Away from judgement, where solace may meet.
Yet, the shadows persist, lingering near,
Casting darkness upon her hopes and her fears.
Education denied, her wings clipped away,
Her potential stifled, like a withered bouquet.
Oh, the torment she bears, a heavy weight,
Her existence deemed impure, left to fate.
A daughter of the village, invisible, unseen,
Invisible scars etched on her soul, so keen.
But amidst the anguish, a fire still burns,
A resilient spirit, in spite of all she yearns.
For deep within her, a flicker remains,
A strength that refuses to wane.
Let our hearts bleed for her untold plight,
As we stand together, shining a guiding light.
May compassion flow like a river divine,
Washing away the pain, embracing her in kind.
For she is more than the struggles she endures,
A beacon of courage, her spirit ensures.
May her story echo, be heard far and wide,
Awakening compassion, erasing the divide.
In the tapestry of pain, let empathy be sewn,
May her voice be valued, and her worth be known.
For she is not defined by her menstruation’s sting,
But by the resilience within her, a mighty offering.
In unity, may we heal her wounds raw,
And rewrite the narrative, shining with awe.
For she, the village girl deserves to be free,
From the agony of menstruation’s decree.
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