The Indian Woman

She drapes her sari, graceful, neat.

The mogra in her hair smells sweet.

Her bangles clink and shine in the sun,

Her hairline worships vermilion.

She stands like a lotus, walks like a doe,

Her beauty’ subtle from head to toe.

Her voice is quiet, her head is down.

Modesty: her soul, her plough, her crown.

She gives up willingly the sweat on her brow.

To save her home she’ll break- not bow.

She cooks and cleans and does all she can

To nurture the essence of tomorrow’s man.

She bears the brunt of evil deeds

Conflicted on her righteous needs.

Love and tolerance, far in length:

Her weakest point, her greatest strength.

A worshipped mother but an ignored wife,

The Indian woman spends all her life

Serving, for she is all that could be

Strength, character, humanity.

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April, 2008

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