Kitchen is a far better office.
It has a greater life
That awaits everyone of them.
They, like befuddled moths,
Keep flying to figure out
Something splendid,
And that would be
A perfect cushion to lie on
They think.
Each utensil is a tap of joys.
No care is taken of.
Who would tell them
Man is to mint money,
Man is to shoulder family,
Man is a horse,
A camel, and he scales up the hill,
Still no sigh.
They elide his greatness.
The moon can't do the work of the sun.
They are trying to be the sun.
In solitude their bones crack.
A sense of not letting themselves
Go down in the age of gender equality
Pushes them out.
They need to get
Man is to chop the wood
Woman to chop the carrot
And understanding of this
Is the fountain of
What they are looking for
The quest of mankind