Ether Bottled

Where minds do not converge

And souls are disinterested,

There is no cause to celebrate

Union of bodies out of compulsion.

Where women are treated as

Machinery for production,

She has no reason to enjoy

Act of cohabitation.

Where she is merely an object

Of self gratification,

Even before reaching the peak

Her cries are muffled.

Where she remains the mortar

For grinding frustrations,

Her emotions crushed and pasted

True she remains an ice maiden.

And that's the way the woman

In her never finds expression.