Thursday, October 25, 2012


We chase a flying kite,
in the fields we are dressed in white,
to the society we must appear right,
but our conscience is roaming dark far from social light,
it fights,
a woman's heart is a cave of secrets,
that only the conscience regrets,
so they fight,
oh they fight, my heart my mind...

We fly a dead kite, our faces must stay clear,
not a shadow of fear,
even when death is near,
a woman's strength is what she wears,
they can never see my fears,
my tears,
oh they fight,
my mind my heart.

We bring down a flying kite,
center it from the view of various sites,
we do not just by sight,
the inner broad eyes, the mind,
oh they fight,
my mind my heart.

We are buried a broken kite,
but they know not of our fights,
they sing praises of our might,
a woman is a rock,
this they say in mock,
or not,
but how could they have known,
oh they fight,
my heart my mind.

My death
.....the end.....

.....all rights reserved

Note: this piece is written in pitiful admiration of a woman's strength