At twelve!

She has the fragrance of withering flower,
Whose precious petals have been crushed!
She has contours of blood on her thighs,
And fountains of tears in her eyes!

At twelve,
She is pregnant!
She's the seventh wife to an elder.
She must daily proceed to the river,
With a water can balancing on her head.

She's a beautiful sad bird!
Whose wings to fly have been broken.
She hates the maternal cage,
That has strangled the dreams she had.

At twelve,
She has wrinkles!
She buries her chin in her palm.
She'll forget to cook for her husband,
And sleep with several slaps.

She has lost the sweetness of her smile,
Her heart is heavy and weary.
Life has given her bile,
While her parents dine in her dowry.

At twelve,
She'll be a mother...!
Her childhood has gone by now.
But if her child will be a girl,
Will she sell her at twelve for cows?