She treads on the sand,
Collects the seashells; warm water touches her feet.
She climbs the mountain,
Bruised, she bleeds.
She strolls the garden paths,
The golden sun overlooks her
She overlooks her plants.
She conserves old architecture,
She shields the country’s border.
Her colour palette brightens the white paper,
Her compassion half heals her patients.
She is the Joan of Arc
Menacing the English pride.
She is the Anne Boleyn
Patriarchy takes her head but,
She is standing upright.
She is the Elizabeth I
Defeating the Spanish Armada; stamping the men who dare to challenge her.
She is the Jane Austen,
Inventing heroines with vices.
She is the Sylvia Plath,
Confessing candidly.
She is the girl who:
Excels at cooking
Drives to office
Reads and writes
Lives in the dark forest with her tribe.
She is the girl who loves:
A he or she or her family or just herself
Or the toy long lost
Or the flowers or rain
Or the poems that fill her mind
Or the novel she just finished living in.
She laughs; she cries
She is exhilarated; she is in pathos
She desires:
To fly,
To dream,
To be loved.
Who is really she?
Can you decode her?
She is an enigma
She is a mystery.
She has multiple colours, faces, individualities.
Misogyny manoeuvers to categorize
She flies away.
She is no ‘Angel’ or ‘Madwoman’,
She is incomprehensible,
She is a She, a Her
Or feels to be so
She is a woman of flesh and blood.