Here is to the women who hurt.
How their pain never told
though their stories ever sold,
intuitively resistant and bold.
Their very dignity drained like dirty waters in streams,
their very hope and essence gone as theirs dreams.
Where's the crag to fortify the weaker vessels
Without whom they say no man excels?
Who feels their pains from pangs of birth
through their silent cries that leads them onto slow death?
Yet still they walk the very valleys and mountainous regions with the beam of joy on their faces,
being so pretentious one can hardly imagine the pangs of distress covering their heart like the oasis.
Here is to the women who fight at night all by themselves,
yet still walk their head high price tagged off the shelves.
Here is to the women who can visualise the rainbow before it appears and the sun before it rises and the moon before it beams and the stars before it shines.
I see but fighters fiercely in battle with all but the world, estranged by wild beast sometimes referred to as men.
Yet still like real Amazonian would strike both man and beast,
with the vengeance of God to overestimate the least,
even with one breast behold their armor and a breastplate fix.
If you can't beat them join them is the mantra, or is it so late?
Varieties in their making,
impurities in their makeup,
uncertainties in their fake up
but by reflections of their maker,
love none comparable to neither
seen, heard nor spoken of either.
Who then is needed before or after them?
They fight their own fights,
and that of children's plights,
putting man's bravado to flight.
So now they can wipe their own tears, so now we can right their own fears, from now to ever in years.
Hats off! We bow, we salute and raise our eyes to heaven through tinted glasses, dreams firmly held in hands of steel glasses.
Toast! Here is to the women who hurt!"
- EMTSBA III
(Written in appreciation of the exemplary fighting spirit of women around the world, whilst watching the war report on Syria - October 2013. Revised January 2014)