Women
Vested with powers which thou envy
For this, she bears the brunt
Without retaliation
With these powers maintains a balance of forces
Both of body and soul
A daughter, a sister, a beloved, a wife, a mother she is
And you have made a whore of her
You roles in life well defined
A child, a son, a brother, a husband a child again
Fit only for this and no more
Living stoically
Has sent shivers down Newton's grave
Bleeding every month
Her fertility cements
But for those nine months
Survives and survives
For a soul unknown.
A man who bleeds
Digs himself a grave
A precursor to many graves
It is thus he treats her such
But should't he realise her powers
Her beauty, her passions, her emotions
Her sense to stand by that where he fails
May this eighth day of March lead her march to heavens
Where the powers be honoured and beauty be adored.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
Added by Poetry Lover
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