Playing merrily in the snow,
little does she know,
the struggle for her existence.
At conception, little did mother care,
If it was a Fiona, or even a Clare,
But alas, her surroundings did.
In the womb when she kicked,
Outside it, the thumb she licked,
Drowned the abhorring stares.
She fought the world, she fought without fear,
In her mind it was crystal clear,
At every jeer, would they cheer.
The daughter kept her promise, so did her mother,
scaling great heights, one after the other,
surfing over the lampooning mob.
In her biography she wrote,
treat me as a lion, for I am no goat,
but a lotus in a muddy pool, just desperate to bloom.
~ Siddharth Khatri