That home became a cell of torture,
Her husband made those walls a voltmeter;
That Wardrobe became a case of weapon,
To peel her skin for worthless pardons;
That glass window with smashing cracks,
Became judgement panel of her tears;
Those vases kept staring at her,
Those ropes bounded her to that broken chair;
That kitchen cooked rotten food,
To serve her in that terrible hell;
Her chapped lips marinated with blood,
Felt burnt at every attempt to touch;
At last, those blood stains in the lobby,
Accompanied her till that basement staircase;
Then that maple wood flooring,
Turned in coffin to keep her body as dead slave;
