Woman

A rain drop leaves the thundering cloud,
Is she running away or plummeting towards?
Is she finally weary of heaven’s autocracy?
Or has she always been an infidel lover of earth?

There at a distance, a flame lights up.
Did she happily burn herself to bring warmth to her lovers?
Or is she screaming because his atrocities make her soul quiver?

Somewhere an apple plopped on a mighty head,
Heck! She falls all the time.
Did she throw herself away to provide for him?
Or simply because her shoulders could no longer bear the weight of her crowded head?

Rain may decide to drop or not,
A wick whether to quiver and melt,
A fruit may be simply eaten on branch,
But at the juncture, she must decide.

She must choose a direction for destiny,
Either she must eat the guilt, drink the hatred and swallow with grace her fears,
Or she must jump from floor to ceiling,
Raise her voice and often others’ too.

Either way the choice is hers.
There’s not more dignity in coming out than staying within.

For each soul has its own reparative measures.
To be at peace, she must know for herself,
How to mend, sew and furnish her own mind.