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O reinterpretare a poeziei “Feminine rage”
In the looking glass, I fix my gaze.
Contemplations carve, etching deep within. A body marred by flaws, a canvas stained:
Yearning for perfection, society’s decree, For I, a woman, bear this weight alone.
A deluge of tears, a symphony of “what ifs”;
Shattered hearts, promises adrift in the abyss.
What if my lips had not whispered “no”? Would fate have danced a different tune?
A symphony of possibilities, untold: in the realm of what could have been, strewn.
What if all I needed was to be born in a different body or font?
All because I am a woman.
Perhaps the stars would have aligned.
And destiny’s path would have veered—a kaleidoscope of moments, entwined; a tapestry of choices, revered.
But alas, my voice did utter “no”, and the universe took a different course.
In this world, where I dwell, a woman I am—the wrong being at the wrong time.
Whispers of boundless prospects, elusive and grand:
In my ears, they dance, like a fleeting command.
Yet, within this revelation, a truth takes its stand—success, it seems, favors the masculine hand.
Yet the skirt, daring to grace my thighs,
Became a whispered provocation,
An unwritten pact, inviting intrusion—merely for the crime of being a woman.
And I was not even able to breathe.
My lips, a shade of crimson, just as my very own blood.
In this world, too often, we walk the line,
Just for being women, our battles begin.
