Sluggishly she peeps up
from under the warm covers,
her dreams sent to a distant realm
by the beams of sunlight
that compel her to start her day.
Slowly she raises herself
and begins her endless chores
thinking, at each step,
'when will the night,
my endless day, slay?'
her thoughts begin to circle
around her problems
of existance,
trivialities, certainties too,
crowding her mind,
weighing down her spirit.
Shackled to her fate,
she decides to be subservient,
never daring to think
of the golden nectar of freedom.
She is a butterfly,
waiting to break free
from the confines of her cocoon
that smother her,
killing every free vision she sees.
But suddenly
she realises that
her fate, her very destiny
are in her own hands
that they need to be moulded,
shaped like soft clay
under the hands of a skilfull potter.
She, hesitantly,
takes the sword of independence
and strikes one fatal blow
to the manacles, the chains
that weigh her wings down.
Soon she is flying, soaring,
reaching new heights,
securing for herself the glories
that she once was denied.
Slowly the night creeps back,
but she does not heave
a sigh of relief or gratitude.
She wants, now, a new day
she waits for the sunlight
that "compels" her to start her day,
banishing the nightmares from her past
to the dark abyss
where she will never return.
