A 16-year-old girl was burned alive in Guatemala! A Handful of Humanity left, too, is in jeopardy.
A poem conveying the truth yet incapable to that extent and offering condolences to her, of course.

When I am burned alive,

the furious flames will slowly melt my skin;

it would affront to take my life at once—which I prefer—

but it, too, is afraid of the vigilantes, who are

enshrouding a girl who is in the holy temple of God and

asking Him to appear, at least, once.

Even the mob want to see you, God,

aren’t you aware of the situation?

Or are you afraid of them, too?

They toiled the bells; shred the clothes that draped your body;

spat on your statue and laughed at you.

I wanted you to come like you used to do,

engross all the evils like you did in the scriptures

and cure them of your angelic touches.

I rolled my hurt yet hopeful eyes.

I hardly could recognize anybody.

But, if I am not wrong, there were person ditto like me:

I saw women who have already been through where I was then;

I saw my friends and their fake promises, and

I saw girls who sooner would bleed like I bled last month.

When I was slithering in the ground, covered with shards of glasses,

men hit me in my breasts with their proud kicks.

It was the same nipple from where they suckled a drop of milk.

It was the same chest, wide-open, where they felt the warmth, slept and survived

but their mother would feel the icy breeze teasing her all night.

Still, she would stare at them and think of their future.

They struck me with their fist in my abdomen.

The same abdomen where they would be kept for eternity nurtured

and some unfortunate day brought to this earth.

They punched me in my mouth–hard.

The red blood dripped all over my lips and body.

The same lips where they kissed their lover

and talked about their invisible power.

They spread the philter and burned me!

The tint of the fire danced in front of my eyes.

I flapped my arms and legs and wailed in desolation.

Layer by layer, the fire will chew me and finally swallow

all of me, but don’t worry, the unscathed beliefs, hopes, and prays

will forever roam to the place where I have already been,

and to the dreams which I have dreamt, thousand nights.

Bring your so-called servile hands near me and feel the warmth

and make sure you fill your bags, too, for your child and wife

who, unfortunately, are not fortunate enough to amass

the pleasure I would give when they burn me.

You can come near to me, maverick

like you have been near to every woman, slept with every single virgin whore

whom you would chase like a meat in the dark aisle,

whom the cognitive would make naked and whip.

But I am not a chimera and you don’t have to be afraid of me.

I cannot assure your survival from the child—invincible—born

from the same mother.

Next day, when my remnant will be sleeping on the icy floor of the earth,

my mother will still wait for me sitting in the dew of the door;

the trees will whistle in abyss agony, in the midst of summer,

no matter how poor it will be,

it will send its foliage to cover me and

won’t let the wind blow away leaving any trace.
-Rozesh Gautam

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