A Woman She Is

Despite the unsullied grace that she possesses,

Which stands against the rises of the world to exist,

She smiles to reassure the agitated,

Even during times when curving her lips,

Seems like a tedious task.

She servers, nurtures and loves unconditionally,

Only to be rewarded by a set of inequitable conditions.

She's the hand that tenderly feeds her restless child,

The drapes of her sari symbolizing,

The perpetual flow of affection that radiates from her eyes.

She's the hand that cuts open a grieving heart,

Fixing it with utmost care,

Her white coat symbolizing the purity of her soul,

And those very hands are cuffed.

Cuffed with biased prejudices, and opinions drawn on them.

People often live in misconception,

That they can easily subdue her,

Dominate her because she is weak.

Mentally weak?

She can dream up ideas that you cannot even fathom.

Physically weak?

She goes through unimaginable pain,

While giving birth to yet another life,

Whom she had uncomplainingly,

Carried in her womb for months.

If only once they could extend their perception,

Beyond the notions of the society,

They would find bliss.

They would find bliss in the curve that outlines her smile,

Spellbinding and beautiful.

They would find bliss in her eyes,

Eyes that have the capacity to assimilate,

The fiction of an entire universe inside them.

They would find bliss by just knowing that,

They are a fragment of such an unfaltering beauty.