In the era of ignorance, it was heard
That they were often discarded.
Mothers would abandon them, and fathers would cast them away
To a distant place where deep wells would swallow their cries forever.
Even today, this tradition persists
In my country,
In remote, desolate regions,
Where the poison of poverty seeps through families.
When a little daughter dons a crimson dress,
She becomes invincible.
All her dreams remain tethered to her tiny feet,
But alas, her laughter never returns.
Her emotions are bartered away,
Her precious eyes lose their value,
And she herself is sold without a price.
