As the leaves pursued the trail of the cool breeze,

and the heavenly scent of the peach blossoms adorned the air,
she marched off the hospital corridor, downcast.
Recurrent denial of the long awaited surgery,
leaving her desperate life in a kaleidoscope of shattered mirrors;
after all, “gender fluidity ”was not her choice .

Out of the blue, a smile replaced my vanishing fury;
and there stood a couple, caressing their dainty little prince,
in awe of the magic a testube could boon.
A faraway wailing jolted me, the grievings of a mother,
torn after aborting her pretty bundle of joy.
Intricacy of this dream evoked my buried inquisitiveness.

Isn’t it better to “die with dignity”,
than being branded as a living corpse for eons?
While they keep rambling about editing your genes,
Isn’t it our imperfections that make us bewitching?
Where greed draws the line of humanity,
mimicking the dusty old chair in the attic, lies ethics;
bashfully, nodding its head to organ trafficking and other drivel.
Are we still humans or self proclaimed Gods?


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