Woman

 At first they used force to kill her will,

They stomped and crushed and beat her ill,

Until blooodied she never did dare,

About herself and her wishes to care.

She killed her passion and became a tool,

That enabled the man to rule,

And while she withered, he did dine and wine,

And soon his lot, they flourished fine.

While she wept and she cried,

And she lived and she died.

Then they exalted her and called her gentle,

And attributed many a virtue to her mantle:

Of kindness and love and sympathy

And motherly care and wifely duty.

A role model for all her sex they drew,

And all who stuck to the bill were true.

If she otherwise breathed at all,

Raised her head or stood tall,

Deemed they her an ill bred whore -

Ungrateful wretch, society's eye sore.

Then they let her read and write

And as a child she learnt like her brothers all

But as she grew into a woman bright

To the kitchen and home did duty call

And while the brothers in their prospects gleamed

In the kitchen she remained and cooked and cleaned

And all the verses of poetry

That she knew so well by memory

Simmered in her mind like the soup she made

And eventually cooled, forgotten and went fade

Her mind, her soul, her spirit poor,

With every dying ambition dear,

Bled agony and suffered defeat,

Among the kitchens pans and heat.

And with every sacrifice she made over the years,

In her heart she cried the bitterest tears!

Until the very wisdom which would have made her great,

Bid her to calm and accept her fate.