A volcanic rage erupts within her
the demon of anger licking her mind
Its the rage for freedom
the passion for liberty
But liberty...who is she?
what is she?
Struggling since she was born
the struggle still continues
Like a butterfly with clipped wings
she flutters in agitation
desperate yet helpless
The steel bars of society closing into her
a feeling of nausea
a claustrophobia in restraint
the madness of confinement
the frustration of repression
Freedom perhaps only in annihilation
but the lust for freedom possessing her
exorcised it never can be
And then it comes...the whiff of liberty
she sees it but cannot recognize it
feels it but cannot comprehend it
Is this the freedom she struggled for all her life?
This grudging freedom
tainted by the compromise of society
made trivial by the consent of man
She rolls it on her tongue
but she cannot swallow it
a bitter metallic taste lingers
poisoned with she knows not what
Bitter like the rinds of truth
she forced down her throat ever since she was born
Weary and resigned she returns to her prison
it seems to have grown on her
it is almost comfortable now
The stench of irrelevance seems to have settled in her nostrils
the bias of society has mingled in her blood
subdued her glowering passion
She presses the knife of her confinement close to her bosom
almost in a masochistic way
But there is no gush of blood
just the throbbing of the pain of lost time
the scars of generations of suffering
The golden chains of marriage await her
chains of gold but nevertheless chains
transferred from one prison to another
weary of the burden of life
The woman-born on a gloomy evening
she dies on an disconsolate night
But dead she was long ago
she is only buried on this fateful day
The shrieks of her soul still haunt the air
Freedom of the woman-
it died before it could be born
freedom of the woman was throttled in her womb.