The portrait of a woman
One day when running across the jungle of hopelessness, taking in the sun of despair and listening to the whispers of the bitter past, I came across a gathering, of men and women, children and adults. They were all staring up at a figure, a goddess on a pedestal. Their eyes were full of tears, tears of hope in the midst of despair, their hands clasped in silent supplication. I went near and as soon as I got into the midst and trained my eyes, I heard a roar, a lusty cry sodden with passion and liberation. I saw fireworks and shooting stars. When I stood there that day and her fist went up the whole crowd went wild and I knew that a lioness had been born. That moment frozen by cameras and newspaper will never leave my mind. That moment will never be drawn on canvas with brush and written in ink but it will be permanent in our hearts, for that day we saw a true portrait, the portrait of a woman. That day when I went to see I didn’t hear the soft breath and gasp of a young woman, I heard the roar of a mango, ripe and yellow on a tree. I hear the buzz of a billion bees and we knew that the queen had decreed. That day standing strong against the flowing wind, resolute against the surging waves I saw a portrait, the portrait of a strong woman. She had her chin up and her eyes closed, listening to the tiny whimpering of her kindling, attending to the childish squabbles of the growing and the grown. I saw her hands soft and gentle calling her little kindling home. I saw the portrait, the portrait of a woman, standing up with a hand held high, a woman who chose to stand and be counted. I saw a woman that men noticed not her breasts and ample behind but the resolve in her eyes and the lion in her heart. I saw that day the portrait of a woman, strong and in all her pride, carved and chiselled on stone. That day I saw the true epitome of motherhood, a true sign of victory and the huge glow of rebellion. That day when I faced the mighty hills of the west, right in front of the setting sun I saw a portrait, the portrait of a strong woman. That night when I closed my eyes I turned the image over and over in my mind, not wanting to let it ebb out. I hugged her close and held her tight, hoping to never let go, hoping to get caught in the moment, to disappear into her bosom and hide from the world. When I lifted my eyes up to see the moon I saw it all, the portrait of a woman, standing stolid and unshaken, looking down at her little children, those that suckled of her breasts and nursed of her laps. I saw her looking down, arms outstretched to the lost and the wandering, the true portrait of a strong woman, calling her children home, away from the night.
One day when running across the jungle of hopelessness, taking in the sun of despair and listening to the whispers of the bitter past, I came across a gathering, of men and women, children and adults. They were all staring up at a figure, a goddess on a pedestal. Their eyes were full of tears, tears of hope in the midst of despair, their hands clasped in silent supplication. I went near and as soon as I got into the midst and trained my eyes, I heard a roar, a lusty cry sodden with passion and liberation. I saw fireworks and shooting stars. When I stood there that day and her fist went up the whole crowd went wild and I knew that a lioness had been born. That moment frozen by cameras and newspaper will never leave my mind. That moment will never be drawn on canvas with brush and written in ink but it will be permanent in our hearts, for that day we saw a true portrait, the portrait of a woman. That day when I went to see I didn’t hear the soft breath and gasp of a young woman, I heard the roar of a mango, ripe and yellow on a tree. I hear the buzz of a billion bees and we knew that the queen had decreed. That day standing strong against the flowing wind, resolute against the surging waves I saw a portrait, the portrait of a strong woman. She had her chin up and her eyes closed, listening to the tiny whimpering of her kindling, attending to the childish squabbles of the growing and the grown. I saw her hands soft and gentle calling her little kindling home. I saw the portrait, the portrait of a woman, standing up with a hand held high, a woman who chose to stand and be counted. I saw a woman that men noticed not her breasts and ample behind but the resolve in her eyes and the lion in her heart. I saw that day the portrait of a woman, strong and in all her pride, carved and chiselled on stone. That day I saw the true epitome of motherhood, a true sign of victory and the huge glow of rebellion. That day when I faced the mighty hills of the west, right in front of the setting sun I saw a portrait, the portrait of a strong woman. That night when I closed my eyes I turned the image over and over in my mind, not wanting to let it ebb out. I hugged her close and held her tight, hoping to never let go, hoping to get caught in the moment, to disappear into her bosom and hide from the world. When I lifted my eyes up to see the moon I saw it all, the portrait of a woman, standing stolid and unshaken, looking down at her little children, those that suckled of her breasts and nursed of her laps. I saw her looking down, arms outstretched to the lost and the wandering, the true portrait of a strong woman, calling her children home, away from the night.
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