Period.
Earlies to the latest
For ancients by the myths.
I am carved
As on teak.
My curves
Deciding my faith,
It's slow poison
For the being within me
I don't want to die,
It's too early !
There's no tale of valour
Neither a sense of extraordinary,
It is about a belief
That they are empowered
And so are we.
The beauty lies
In the ivory of milk
Embracing my black coffee.
I won't weave a chronicle
Or praise for self,
I will add
Embellishments of critique
And curate the hem
Of the poem,
For you to understand
For them to know
For me to break the
Shackles
And let me roar.
I will pause,
But not that I am scared,
For to express my desire
To be the tree like that
Of Chinar.
Detailing to the valleys
Of Kashmir,
And swaying within the
Himalayan aura,
Spreading its crown graciously.
I am curious to breathe
With the mere thought
For the air around me
Is too suffocating.
No,
I am not the one
You are thinking I am
I am just someone
Who is deeply at peace
When you recognise her
And the fellow ladies
For the women
They want to be.
By Devyanshi Agarwal
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