Many women of the village pass by my house on their bicycles with various kinds of loads. None of them is highly educated or highly placed. Still, they can be aptly called "women of substance". I dedicate this poem to them and their sisters all over the world.
I see them silently pass by my room,
Carrying a child to school on the pillion,
Or bundles of umbrellas to earn a little;
By pushing a needle times a million
To save their family, from a looming doom.
They unflinchingly split wire from tyres.
They never shirk from completing a deed.
They never tire from carrying a load,
Rice or vegetable, whatever they need,
To keep burning the cooking hearth fires.
They attend meetings at their kid’s school,
After classes they bring them back home.
They have no time for gossiping or cards,
They have no leisure anywhere to roam,
Ever on the move, rain or shine, hot or cool.
They cook, clean, wash, weed, tug and toil,
They work, so they don’t need a work out,
Neither do they need a gym to keep slim.
Quietly, patiently, constantly like the ants,
They tread the paths ignoring sand or soil.
They are in the farms to help their men,
They are in the block office for a signature;
Attend the hospital to nurse their sick child.
Persons of substance they are, a magic mixture-
Of virtues, valor, vigor, vigil and acumen.
Made of the same metal their bicycles are,
The women on bicycles, I greatly admire,
They are truly worthy of praises and prizes;
The super creatures, the chariots of fire
With loads on their hearts, yet traveling far.
Carrying a child to school on the pillion,
Or bundles of umbrellas to earn a little;
By pushing a needle times a million
To save their family, from a looming doom.
They unflinchingly split wire from tyres.
They never shirk from completing a deed.
They never tire from carrying a load,
Rice or vegetable, whatever they need,
To keep burning the cooking hearth fires.
They attend meetings at their kid’s school,
After classes they bring them back home.
They have no time for gossiping or cards,
They have no leisure anywhere to roam,
Ever on the move, rain or shine, hot or cool.
They cook, clean, wash, weed, tug and toil,
They work, so they don’t need a work out,
Neither do they need a gym to keep slim.
Quietly, patiently, constantly like the ants,
They tread the paths ignoring sand or soil.
They are in the farms to help their men,
They are in the block office for a signature;
Attend the hospital to nurse their sick child.
Persons of substance they are, a magic mixture-
Of virtues, valor, vigor, vigil and acumen.
Made of the same metal their bicycles are,
The women on bicycles, I greatly admire,
They are truly worthy of praises and prizes;
The super creatures, the chariots of fire
With loads on their hearts, yet traveling far.
***
Posted in Wikinut
April 20, 2013
Xavier Bage
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