Draupadi

Call me Draupadi,

Daughter of flames, 

born from the embers of Drupad's desire,

Whose steps echoed with,

the thunder of prophecy,

A woman bound to rewrite:

the threads of history.

Call me Panchali,

Bride of five, 

with warriors' blood in my veins,

My tears, like fire,

scorched the battlefield of Kurukshetra,

And my tattered cloth 

became the noose around the Kauravas' fate.

Call me Krishna,

The dark-skinned dreamer, 

carved from dusk and earth,

Who longed for a palace not of stone, 

but of freedom,

A palace that,

shimmered with envy in every eye,

Until the crown sat heavy upon my brow, 

and I ruled as queen.

Broken Petal

Beneath the moon's soft silver light,

A butterfly laments the night.

Her colors, once a vibrant flare,

Now fade to ash in the cool, still air.

Through twilight’s arms, she glides in pain,

Each fallen feather a silent stain.

Her heart, a wound that softly weeps,

For love now buried in shadowed deeps.

A hand, so cold, with cruel delight,

Stole her wings in the quiet night.

He wore her beauty, claimed her grace,

And left her broken in hollow space.

Yet in the dark, a spark takes flight—

Hope flickers faint beneath the blight.

For even shattered wings can rise,

To greet the dawn with fearless eyes.

Through tears, through loss, 

she’ll find her might,

Unfurling strength with each new flight.

A symbol born of grief and strife,

The butterfly reclaims her life.