The “Me too” waves were reaching the shore,
Hush, they said, make noise no more.
The child is sleeping , don’t wake her up,
For she doesn’t know that she can join the hub.

Two frail hands raised, as she cried “Me too”,
I looked around and saw a face of sixty-two.
Oh quiet lady, your story has passed expiry date,
She would not know, her beginning itself was late.

That girl sleeping on the streets, every night,
She did not know “Me too” was a fight.
The village homes, the urban flats,
Who is counting the “Me too” stats.

They sat huddled, under the red light,
Their glittering dresses, telling of their plight.
Their chorus whisper was turning pretty loud,
Were they entitled to join the “Me too” crowd ?

We are sorry, we took time to speak,
We are sorry, our strength was bleak.
In collective voice we gather strength,
We forgot to measure time’s wave length.

We will not justify reasons for the delay,
For it is not a game of sprint or relay.
Look into our eyes and own up guilt,
Let us see your manhood wilt.

Me too is not a voice or a body shamed,
Me too is in our mind of a face unnamed.
Me too is a call, to twist the hand that caused us pain.
Me too is a mission to obliterate our mental stain.
Me too is not a fashionable trend setter,
Me too is not to make the women feel better.

Me too is not the salt runnnig down with tears,

Me too is the salt of grit and march, to overcome hidden fears.

Me too is a story to be voiced and told,

By the most powerful amongst us and the beautifully bold.