When God created man, spineless he proved to be,
So from the void, a woman was carved, sculpted, and set free.
Unlike the man who was merely fashioned from the dust,
She was molded with stardust and forged in sacred trust.
Orion’s belt served as her tiara, crystalline and bright,
With constellations braided into tresses of the night.
Her tongue spun forth a choir of angels, a celestial harp to play,
Her eyes—those twin horizons—held the sun’s own golden ray;
Yet when she shut them, empires crumbled into cold decay.
Her bosom flows with life-tides, the sustenance of the kind,
Her womb, a sanctuary, the coziest shelter for the mind.
She is the paradox of iron—indestructible in strength,
Woven through with grace that spans the heaven’s width and length.
Her hands, her feet, her very prints guide us toward the gate,
And in that sacred space between her thighs, she seals the hands of fate.
Yet what makes her mortal is a spirit prone to prey,
Trapped within the duality of man, unable to outwit the fray.
From the foul-tongued serpent slithering in the shade of Eden’s tree,
To the ten-headed demon claiming lordship, unbridled and free—
Too many wolves wear the skin of sheep to hide their hollow trace,
And though she remains faultless, they blame her for their fall from grace.
She wipes away the remnants of her acidic, faceless ghost,
While thoughts begin to quake within, a silent, heavy host.
Oh, cruel and fractured man! With your hollow, shifting breath,
Tell me—how many faces have you worn to cloak your depth of death?
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