Is n’t She, the real martyr!

She looked defunct in her way
As if stood in, scaffold plane
She holds her one year lad in hand
With a sack of dismantled dreams

She is the victim and the prey!
The helpless lady of martyr!
He is the successor and the sufferer
The poor kid of our martyr!

She is sightless and mightless
To have a look at hosted flags
But leaders are intent intact
To express mourn in this peak time

The hike time! The fire time!
The time of poor martyrs!
To be created to exploit!
And celebrate for their own great reign!

She felt strange and ignorant
Of whom they pomp and bemoan
But she knew only that prime fact
He was life and world so far

They go on inflated speech
To describe who was he to them.
She could only scorn at them
With her mettle temperament

Alas! at sight of poor kid
Struggling for her bleeding teat;
She could not resist her;
And broke herself and flowed though eyes

She is called with unlike names
As and when a martyr born
But she seemed have similar thoughts
And hopeless fates that dismay life

Who had disfigured her life?
Is it me and you together?
Or those who had sliced her dear?
Or the need and greed of power?