Only She can see the distant light through the night; Her soul in an urn sinking, silencing Her mortal plight 

alive is Her heart,still with the burn

Go out alone only when you’re old
not after dark, not beyond the alley
wear this, walk like that, She was told;
If not Her feet rests in the valley.

Image: PeakPX.

She climbs and climbs the tangled rope
letting go; Wears She once a hearty robe
hands filled with dirt and soil grope
Her and down Her body they probe.
 
 
She’s a plaything, a bin of waste, aged ale
all at once; Men are men, lad or oul
men are men, macho or not; For a male
heart is filled with darkness and foul. 
 
 
World is anything but kind; No rest
can She finds, day and night, not lying
like a nest-bird, wandering in forest
unsafe and uncared for, high-above flying. 
 
The man is lame and lame and lame
neither can he work hard nor right
all can he doeth is solely blame
the women; She works hard and bright.
 
 
No day, no night Her soul is lown
yet She stands still in flaming air
Her wishes like a farther lamp blown
away; She stays still, pretty and fair.
 
 
Termed another sky, trampled to earth
not equal, not alike, not even a ruth
buried in winter away from hearth
lies weave her like a divine truth.
 
 
Crowd of men dart with lust and wist
Her eyes brim with a teary lough
a tale She cannot tell; Tale of twist
dreams and desires teared with plough.
 
 
Vice are the thoughts of men; Low,
senile and toxic, beastly with horns;
She is the Petal in the sunshine glow
hidden beneath are nothing but thorns.