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  • Writer's pictureKaumudi Shah

"She is not born a woman, she becomes one"

The day when I decided to choose grey

And dumped pink! Ouch it hurts them,

Yes, I am an artist and I like grey.

Choices are mine and I chose greys.

Being constant with choosing what to wear

I broke the values, you sketched for me.

“Sweeter shall my wild heart rest

With your footprints on my breast.”

She wrote to me, I decided not to be

The one who tried sabotage my credence,

Will never remember the sex he was born.

Like fire like water, burned your yearning

But choose not to be the one.

Oh, hear the plight of those who brings life

To your rusted shelter.

Whose tireless toil oft goes unseen, unknown

At the door she stands with your bread,

Awaiting for your good bye smile!

She labour with her hands and hearts alone,

And bear a weight that few can fully own.

Never ending tasks that fill each passing dusk,

Can wear the strongest spirit to decay,

As she shoulders burdens evermore.

She told me how cumbersome it was!

To a woman with black coat and a hefty bag,

A lunch box and a gummed label of a brand.

Ah! she was with her earned cash,

And I was cashless, No, but I had asked him

The very last night to give me hundreds,

To bring some viand.

I was never born to be the one,

But you made me one.

They asked me to be with someone,

Where Ovid will ovulate, Philomela takes

The retribution with Tereus,

And the nightingale will yodel

The song of solidity and vigor.

I would better sketch my voice

Thou, Wordsworth know my name

At least not in his grave.

I choose what I want to be,

A woman of love and hate,

Or A wo without man.


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