Being a widow is not being a window
Through which beautiful sceneries may be admired.
Being a widow means being a door
Through which one traverses all the vicissitudes
Of life that swing widely with variations
Of expressions on the pendulum of emotions.
Suddenly, she feels she is alone,
Alone to take care of the children,
Alone to cook and clean, alone to do washing up,
Alone to chop or shop and still alone
On bed during the long Winter nights.
Tired of crying, tired of sobbing,
Tired of loneliness, tired of tiredness,
And still tired of what people say
Both behind her back and infront of her eyes,
She decides to take her fate in her hands.
She rises from the ashes, like the phoenix,
She walks, head held high, focussed
On her achievable dreams,
She feels she is not alone,
Her children are there and a good friend as well
Though others turned their backs to her.
Most importantly, she feels her husband is still there
To support her in all her endeavours.
Like the kangaroo, she protects her children,
Like the lioness, she protects her dignity
And like the tortoise, she wins the race,
Slow and steady with a willpower,
As strong as steel.