The crimson roses bloom in staged display,
A fleeting pageant for a single day.
With practiced smiles, the accolades are spun,
While shadows hide the damage that’s been done.
In varied lands, the scales are tilted low,
Where ancient customs dictate how they grow.
One group may honor, while the masses slight,
Extinguishing the flicker of their light.
For once the sun sets on the praised event,
The grace is gone; the heavy soul is bent.
They stand as captives to a rigid creed,
Where silence is the only soil for seed.
Beneath the weight of culture, law, and pride,
The wounds of body and the spirit hide.
Even the cradle offers no retreat,
From cruelty that stalks the quiet street.
They may not speak, they may not dare dissent,
To every whim their broken backs are bent.
A slap, a lash, a violation deep,
The promises of "honor" none shall keep.
They walk like ghosts within a gilded pen,
At the command of systems and of men.
So keep the flowers, keep the empty toast,
For those who suffer in silence feel it most.
Until the chains of "custom" fall away,
There is no truth in any Women’s Day.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 3:19 PM UTC
The crimson roses bloom in staged display,
A fleeting pageant for a single day.
With practiced smiles, the accolades are spun,
While shadows hide the damage that’s been done.
In varied lands, the scales are tilted low,
Where ancient customs dictate how they grow.
One group may honor, while the masses slight,
Extinguishing the flicker of their light.
For once the sun sets on the praised event,
The grace is gone; the heavy soul is bent.
They stand as captives to a rigid creed,
Where silence is the only soil for seed.
Beneath the weight of culture, law, and pride,
The wounds of body and the spirit hide.
Even the cradle offers no retreat,
From cruelty that stalks the quiet street.
They may not speak, they may not dare dissent,
To every whim their broken backs are bent.
A slap, a lash, a violation deep,
The promises of "honor" none shall keep.
They walk like ghosts within a gilded pen,
At the command of systems and of men.
So keep the flowers, keep the empty toast,
For those who suffer in silence feel it most.
Until the chains of "custom" fall away,
There is no truth in any Women’s Day.
