There is so much pain involved
in the creation of beauty.
But since when were you formed
out of the man’s ribs?
You’ve been carving niches on stones
since the day you were conceived
to make mountains move
and seas stir
with all that you were meant to be.
So why couldn’t you just be a wild rose
without being cut and put in a vase
as their trophy?
Why do they have to take the distinction
of being the soldiers who drew blood
for your own victory?
Your being a woman serves as your sword
every time you go out there in the
where you are disarmed of your thorns
and put so low for wearing your
scarlet, velvety skin
where you are made to kneel before their guns
and swallow the bullets they don’t have the balls
to take in
But even if this fight for a revolution
once again comes to falter
and these lush petals of yours get robbed
of their combative glory
A new field of yours will always blossom
long after you’ve withered:
I myself am now a red rose in full bloom – I won’t
get myself picked.