Hair all tucked in; shorn of jewellery
Like newly minted doctors gathering degrees;
Swaddling along in blue cloth slippers
The women in pink robes
On the operation table
Like a chicken to be slaughtered
The pain throbs deep into
The abyss of one’s core
Nails digging into one’s skin
The prick of pain buried as the
Sensations swept over
A tide of pain’s frothy mouth
The women in pink awaited
their turn; a blush of fear
Eyes turned to me as I limped
Back, their eyes marking terror
Sisterhood; womanly woes
The cycle of birth, growth and death
Strangers speak in same tunes
Sculpted by nature’s sharp scalpel
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