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.