By Junita Threse
She started inside her,
No one in this society loved her,
Led her to grow up alone,
Precociously in her own fear;
Betrayed by her maker,
Solicited by her lover,
From the day she was born,
Ill-fated into this town.
Outcasted to the wolves,
Got bleeding and bruised fingers,
Her own undoing,
A plunging knife to the heart.
Still, never gave up,
Still walked the untouchable ground,
Running with the pack of wolves,
Because no one was left near her.
At a tender age,
She understood the meaning;
People hated her
Because she was greater.
Matured into a woman,
Alone her whole life,
Now the world runs for her,
The flowers bloomed for her.
She was outed by her maker,
Now she is the maker.
She was given up by her giver,
She now gives her giver.
Even after being called useless,
Her footsteps were of roses,
Her touches of marigolds,
Her insight was always helpful.
Brothers and lover's beloved unwanted;
But her independence now speaks volumes.
Knowledge was not given;
She struggled for it to be taken.
Living in isolation
Is not to be sad about.
Her experience in rugged roads
Is her way to a beautiful life.
She a life producer,
Independent worker,
Helper to every creature—
That is why she is a woman.