She treads the silent corridors where voices fall through cracked spaces,
A million daughters are cloaked in an unspoken ache,
Their voices fading into the abyss by the cold, their pleas dismissed,
Truths discarded, bleeding into void—
A price paid deeply, fierce and bare.

They heal with hands carved from a ceaseless strain,
Worn and weary within the cloak of shadows,
Judged less than the whole beneath sterile light,
Bearing burdens veiled from sight—
A scar that cleaves, adrift in numbness, out of reach.

They linger with aching souls,
Their pains shrugged off, their stories untold,
Misread bodies and misdirected care devours fragile pleas,
Drifting through cold nights without remedy,
Silent echoes of thousands lost,
Lives folded away where cries were crushed,
Could’ve been saved by voices torn,
Denied by a system broken and worn.

Must women kneel on cold hospital floors, and kiss the calloused feet of men —
The gatekeepers of care, the rulers behind iron doors?
Are they condemned to have their whispered wounds met with nods,
Only when bowed under these patriarchs’ thrones?
Can veiled cries rise higher than a silent plea,
Or she must kneel for sight and mercy?

A deafened system, ignorant of her whispered cries,
Drowns her stories beneath the noise, where injustice festers, and faint hope dies,
Millions broken beneath silent lies,
A silence steeped in solemn grief.

But somewhere in that hidden strife,
A fierce flame kindles, a reckoning cries,
For every silenced voice shall rise,
To tear down these shadowed barriers—
And claim the cost borne from bitter nights,
Burning bright against the patriarchal blight.