Woman, a never-ending epic
_______________________
Let from anywhere a poem begin,
If only voice comes only from within.
___________________________
She makes more than half of what’s home,
Her personae confined to dome,
Still, she has from here-to-there roam!
The man in her life, called her groom
To let bud unto flower bloom,
Can’t spare her even a small room.
Even today she needs support,
Identity, anchoring port,
Yet, where's enough space for her fort?
Should she bury her lifelong dream,
Walk the way shown with a face grim,
Or paint her own life, rise like cream?
She can make common look like rare,
Make haven of a home so bare
What only she can as ever.
In her love there’s intensity,
In her friendship, intimacy,
In all she does rare ecstasy.
For one, a rare creator’s she,
Creation, creativity,
Rolled into one place all the three.
She fights battles, not for winning,
To keep her home alive, humming,
Without her the home is nothing.
She’s not all of body and blood,
A throbbing heart ever in flood,
A flower that still remains bud.
What’s she? A thought or just a thing?
An epic, one never ending,
One that gets writ whilst unfolding.
______________________________
Tercet | 04.03.2026 | dream, epic, home, women
Note: For Women’s Day (8th March)
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