Daughters of neighbors
pierced the skin of the skies,
riding chariots of fire,
floating nine months
in the arms of weightless stars.
They whispered to the void,
grew life where even breath
has no permission to exist.

But here —
our daughters sit behind locked doors,
trapped in silence at the end of the street,
where schools are closed,
where a blackboard is a battlefield,
and a book
a forbidden fruit.

They planted seeds in space,
in the soil of galaxies,
while we—
we could not plant
a single seed of mercy
in the hearts of those who breathe
oxygen too richly to share.

O Sunita!
You carried the prayers of science
beyond the blue.
But our girls?
Their wings were broken
not by gravity
but by impatience, by fear,
by chains disguised as customs.

How long?
How long will the stars sing
while our daughters are silenced?
The earth has already taken flight,
and we—
we are still
binding the feet
of angels.

Let us give them wings too.
Let them fly—
not to escape,
but to arrive.
Let them touch the sky,
and return
with the soft, burning realization
of their own light.

Because the sky
is not for a few.
It was made
for every dream
that dares
to open its eyes.