A Woman’s Ache Is Her Own
A woman’s ache is her own
It’s the length and breadth of her offerings
It is a silent night embedded in the arms of sunshine
It is the end of words trapped in dictionaries
Sometimes she sees an illusion, sometimes she sees a mirage-
a life unfolding in the heartbreaks of a divine entourage
Words become whispers, whispers become flights
The hell is a lonely place beyond her eyesight
A woman’s ache is a splendid gift to mankind
Her emptiness is the globe, her sanctity is the paradise
Days that dawn and nights that recede get lost in the footsteps of time
She has no home, her house is in the pastures of Adelphi
Her music reverberates in failed empires of Alexandria
Her laughter becomes a chorus in the oracles of Greece
Men move in shadows, minions of a heightened fight
But a woman breathes the colours of flying kites
A woman’s ache is her own
She has navigated centuries to be somebody in her body
Her heart is the corridor of forgotten songs
Her face is the eclipse of a long-lost spring
She knows what she wants but she does what she can’t
Rivers, seas, oceans break into waves in the palms of her awakening
She cradles despair standing at the gates of Persephone
Mornings come and go, nights burn in candles, slow
The world trudges along limping on broken feet
The Mecca of her dreams is plagued by diabolical stings
The Medina of her hope is trapped in theorems of mundane things
A woman’s ache is her own
The world doesn’t understand one alphabet of it
She writes verses, she paints pictures, she sings
Her god is elusive, her prayers are private musings
They say her heart has turned to stone
They don’t know that a woman’s ache is her own.