From Bhindi Bazaar, to Bohra Mohallah
Strokes the street with blood, that collage of faith
Which holds hostage, holy virgins of Allah
To the rites of passage; its sinister wraith
Still in dark alleys, mothers bequeath khatna, to their dears
The secret of pain and shame, their matriarchs, lavished on them
Oh clitoris! That evil skin! That source of sin, since untold years
Massacred, in a mad fiesta of, mystical mayhem
That girl behind a slit clit, this woman behind a big scar
“Just a womb of me is left now; impotent left my desires
Why a woman sells a woman, in a men’s diktat’s bazaar!
What’s my faith got to do, with my clit; what a muddle of quagmires?”
May Nusrat spare her Ishrat, an angel of seven!
That penance, handed over, from mothers to daughters
For clit ain’t much different, from deified phallus of men
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