The quiet nights of all the winters,
savour those women who choose to strip
many layers of random sacrifices,
they finally free their witches
to eat guilt with wisdom.

They kiss inside the neon clubs,
finding lust, in a glass of whiskey,
away from misogyny, far from a promise,
where love is one cruel obligation.
She waters the kind daffodils,
they’re here to not judge.

Lamps beside beds throw colors
on the tales, where ladies choose lovers.
Men still squirt on the blurred pages
of a magazine selling bikinis.
Women still curve the verses,
to turn into ‘warm rivers.’

On the lanes of our curious town,
the night sky’s draped around a woman.
She killed the bad, bygone nights
between her legs like poetry,
chokes the body of hate.

Orgasm is organic & democratic,
so is the heart of a woman. If it breaks
don’t console it with your tongue.
She knows how to stitch a crack,
where Gods cannot survive.
All that thrives is a rage,
to take down monarchs.

– Kabir Deb