The Eternal Women

She is
what she shows
and what she hides well.
And more,
what she tries to show
and what in vain
tries to hide
and she cannot.
She is the woman,
the tempest
and the catastrophe.
And more,
the creation
the power of her speech
and the acceptance
of her persuasion
She is
the hands,
perfectly moving
always in front pointing
with the long fingers
always upward.
She is
the hands that talk
and persuade.
And the eyes that reveal,
the eyes
that try to hide
the sin,
the sin of the mind
and of the moment.
She is
the witch
that when the evil desires
she knows that in the thought, and only
she provoked it already.
She is the wall
she untiringly builds
between herself
and the others
to demolish in one second
with no hesitation
or logic,
without a rule,
just like that
wherever she wants and
whenever she wants.
She is
their goddess and queen.
Haughty
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
Aloof.
Distant,
even at a breath,
Distant.
She is theirs
and she is
a stranger.
She is
the stone goddess
with the unveiled breasts
erected and pointed
into the centuries
provoking time
with their resistance.
And more,
being ironical to it.
The impudent.
With invisible smile
on the corners of the lips.
Majestic,
like the ancient statues.
She is here
and also
somewhere else,
in an unknown world.
She is
her own happiness
and the misery
that weighs her down
for the difference.
She knows that difference.
Like us
she knows
and admits here like us.
But she does not remember...
where and when
she first saw
that difference.
She does not remember...
She does not remember.
What is there to remember?
Her own birth?
This has never happened
because if it was possible
she would have known
that she carried her
with her.
She is...
What is she really?
More than a woman...
The Eternal Woman.

© 1988 by Della Rounick. All Rights Reserved