Betwixt the months of July and September,
August is like a black mark in the calendar;
It is the month I don’t like to remember,
I wish if it was not in the calendar.
You may ask why I hate it so much,
Because it’s the bluest month I was born,
I never celebrate it, it isn’t my wish,
Even to remember the day, I was born
In a dark night, like a night flower,
I opened my eyes to see a ray of moon;
Moon hid her face not to see the flower,
The world was pitch dark, when I was born.
Every August, I have to die and be born again,
Realizing the curse hidden in my birth,
What’s the wrong I did the day I was born,
Not to feel the welcoming hand’s warmth?
Into a land where sight blurred with mist,
The wrong I did was being a girl child,
No medicine can cure, my wounded heart,
From the slap I faced, coming to a wrong world.
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The rejection, girls still face in some societies.