she

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.