They call me a woman
And not a human,
I am fixed
Like a portrait
On the walls of society
For there are only few
Spectators to see,
And enjoy my show.

I had carried and still
Do carry, his mightiness,
Once like a daughter and
Once like a spouse,
With no difference at all.

They have painted me,
And call me possessive,
They have uprooted me,
And call me emotional,
They have planted me,
And call me mendacious,
And made me ‘what I am not!’


Woman is not born but created,
Out of their conscience,
With some exaggerated corroboration,
To label her as a thing, to play with,
A thought, never to feel,
A feeling, never to adhere,
And an idea, always to imagine.

Editor's Note

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