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Your skillful male hands
knead the mud
to shape me
as you may
in a set mould
of humble clay
since centuries
the same cast,
a million women
repeat and relive
a future of past
broad forehead
to bring you
lines of fortune
lotus-eyes to bring
compassion and wrath,
or when you say
doom- doom !
only love
and endearment
her lips allowed
to smile and sing
the tongue that drinks
your adversary's blood
and never utters
a single word
the perfect curves
to be the mother
in her endless womb
your dreams to nurture
the thighs strong
to bear you sons
fight your wars
defeat your demons
the embellishments, perfect all
to show your prosperity
and the burial in water
the final downfall
the ritual carving
of a mortal mother
every year
you dear man
her author
her sculptor !
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