Soldiers, rifles in hand, stalk about, all around.
I stand in their midst, unarmed.
The soldiers don't know me, they stare at the unarmed woman from time to time, with a strange look.
Nobody knows why I'm suddenly here.
A dirty body, grimy clothes, depressed unkempt hair,
I don't have shackles on me, but they are somewhere still,
They can sense it, they can feel it, I won't be able to take a step in any direction if I so desired.
In their eyeballs I can see a dreadful cognizance.
The rifles, they know, are meant to strike terror
The bayonets, the boots, are meant to strike terror.
They'd be hurt awfully, if they can't strike terror.
I do not have the legal right to hurt anyone.
They could inform their superiors that this one refuses to be terrorized,
And tries to snap her chains relentlessly.
The superiors would certainly order me to be hanged.
Once the day and time for the hanging is fixed,
They'd feed me on fish curry, hilsa and shrimps.
Then if I say, I won't eat!
If I don't let out a sigh on the gallows!
If I have the guts not to be terrorized even when they've put the noose on!