She walks in liberty, not her own,
When she thinks of her homelands,
That now exist nowhere but in her mind,
Homelands that they had fled years ago,
Memory takes where the body can’t follow.

When she thinks of her homelands,
She thinks of women’s hands,
Drawing water from deep seated wells,
Hands busy praying, shackled by noisy bangles and rings, tokens of courtship,
No different from bells chiming on bobbing heads of cattle, tokens of ownership.
Hands riding like spiders on sewing machines as life tightens around.
Hands, because everything else disappears under rolls of cloth, rolls that are stamps of imposed modesty, rolls enough to cover the earth, rolls that wrap her down to the marrow of her bone, like a long leash.
Rolls, until one cannot tell the silhouette from the downcast shadow on the ground.
Each silhouette indistinguishable from the other, prints on reams of cloth
Frayed at edges, faded here and there, masquerading without a sound.

If she speaks it is called gossip, if her hands are not busy, she is cut to size.
Hence all you hear are her bangles and busy hands, waking before sunrise.
For you, Freedom, she risks her life and liberty, to give you to others, protests all,
Burning down like candles, each to each, giving feet to freedom, hands to dreams.
In your name, Freedom, they finally do for themselves, what others care not to do for them. For you, some leave behind all they own. They carry what their hands can hold and hold on to you, a million on the move.

Vaishnavi says ‘She walks in liberty’ is inspired by Byron, but with the ongoing Iran protests in mind.