They weighed her honour by her dress,
Her virtue by the skin she showed;
As though a woman somehow grows less
The freer she may choose her road.

She drank, she danced, she loved by choice,
She lived without their leave or bless;
And simply because she owned her voice,
They named her freedom characterless.

She chose whose arms she wished to know,
Or chose no lover, if she pleased;
Her yes was hers alone to show,
Her no was never theirs to seize.

And even she who sells desire,
For hunger, money, choice, distress-
Why shame the flesh that men acquire,
Then call the woman characterless?

A woman walks a crowded street,
A stranger’s gaze begins to crawl;
She quickens every step and beat,
While he thinks nothing wrong at all.

A hand that gropes inside a train,
A man who follows close behind;
She carries home the fear and stain,
He leaves the moment from his mind.

At midnight comes the message vile,
A threat because she dared resist;
He hides behind a glowing tile,
And types the harm he would commit.

We teach our daughters where to stand,
What roads to shun, how not to dress;
Yet seldom teach the watching man-
A spineless world calls her characterless.

Do not tell her to hide her skin
Because a stranger cannot stare;
Begin with him. Begin within.
Teach him her body is not his to share.

Do not tell her to fear the night,
Or hold her keys between her hands;
Teach men that strength confers no right,
And no is where all wanting ends.

A dinner does not purchase touch,
A wedding ring cannot command;
No drink can ever grant him much,
No silence places flesh in hand.

And when a woman says it clear,
No dress, no wine can make it less;
The man who hears and still comes near-
There stands the truly characterless.

And lower still, beyond excuse,
A child too young to name the crime;
No lie can soften such abuse,
No age can wash it clean with time.

No skirt to blame, no drink, no night,
No twisted tale of what she wore;
Only a soul denied its right,
And one who chose to injure more.

If morals falter even there,
If silence shelters ugliness;
Then shame belongs not to the harmed-
It clings instead to characterless.

Yet ancient pages, robed as wise,
Still warned that women must be led;
How strange that heaven, in men’s eyes,
So often spoke what men had said.

A father first, a husband next,
A woman’s freedom kept in chains;
As though obedience were the text,
And independence carried stains.

Perhaps the fear was never vice,
Nor what a woman free might do;
Perhaps control had had its price,
And freedom threatened those who knew.

For she might earn, might leave, might choose,
Might own her body, bread and name;
And men who once had naught to lose
Might lose the shelter built by shame.

How often power calls itself protection when it fears release,
How often chains are dressed as virtue just to keep dominion’s peace.

What happens when she needs no leave,
No nod before she walks away?
What happens when she won’t believe
That man was born to rule her day?

What happens when her life is hers,
Her love, her labour, joy, distress?
Perhaps that freedom only stirs
The ones who fear her fearlessness.

Imagine streets beneath the moon
Where women need not scan behind;
Where daughters wander home at noon
Or midnight, with an easy mind.

Where skin is skin, and love is choice,
Where freedom carries no disgrace;
Where women need not mute their voice
To make the world a safer place.

Where boys are taught that strength is grace,
Not dominance or crude excess;
That manhood means to honour space,
Not force a woman into less.

If morals truly guard the weak,
Why is her freedom what we suppress?
If virtue is the thing we seek-
Then tell me: who is characterless?