By: Okasha Batool Naqvi, 15
Our valued objects we do keep,
stored in jars of gold,
presented when all fall asleep,
for our trusted to behold.
We shine them with our hands,
and kiss them on their feet,
our gold and jewels, what treasure!
their taste to us so sweet.
Our pearls and our diamonds,
our prized and our old,
we polish them so perfectly,
for our eyes only to behold.
Our possessions fell into our hands,
with hard work and time that pains,
increasing the value of shackles and chains,
that sign us to their fame.
Precious are our possessions,
on them we cannot put a price,
worshiping our obsessions,
guarding them with our life.
Do you know there is one element!
a gold worth more than in all the world,
made by God Himself to adore
deafens all those who’ve heard
The beauty of this essence,
is that to attain it is to be born,
be born a divine blessing and mercy,
upon its recognition I do mourn.
Ahh, this God-given element of Nature,
and miracle in a whole,
is thrashed and torn to the feet of dogs,
of which they prey without a soul.
What is this secret element
What is the beauty of miracles?
Given by God for us to hold?
Is it the sun on the mountains?
the dew on the daffodils
the song of the nightingale
the rainbow on the horizon
or the waves of the calming sea?
Nay, it is more than those beauties
It's the that miracle they call "SHE!"
Under her feet roses did twine,
all those who marked her path,
leaving the scent of roses fine,
yet a taste of thorns adorn her path.
All those who would follow,
tried to grasp the heaven beneath her feet,
trying to possibly swallow,
her coolness in the heat
and her warmth in the breeze
Her body would be cloaked,
yet with no simple cloth or form to see,
a possession that would revoke,
the mere image of modesty.
She would thus increase the prize of her being,
by hiding it and guarding it so,
the price and value of this ‘she’ increasing,
a bid that had continued to grow.
Her face was meant to be a symbol,
held high above the rest,
what dignity and grace had she!
How such a being was so blessed.
How her words were the swords and shields,
the seed that grew mankind,
her hands how they once revealed,
the throbbing of the mind.
Her eyes cried tears for the blind,
spoke for those who had no tongue,
she melodically sewed and refined,
the songs we never sung.
This she is every female,
in every ad on t.v,
Where has her protection gone?
Has she been sold from gold to free?
Why must her attributes of beauty,
be described in the tense of past,
why must her story crumple,
into an image that shouldn’t last?
She flags now the image of desire,
of lust and signs so bold,
how reduced she is sold for now,
what possession does she hold?
Why is this pearl of heavens,
of grace and morality,
reduced to the dust of gardens,
that once nurtured her mentality.
How men they feast and soar,
with no respect of what lies deep,
but of all that she gives so willingly,
not sure of what they keep.
Born with such a respect was she,
and what a treasure she is to know,
how society could ever imagine her to be,
whiter than the snow.
Unpolished is her treasure,
and unguarded is her soul,
she has become the mere pleasure,
without a true meaning as a whole.
My women you are a prize,
not to be auctioned at any bid,
let your ranks again rise,
let yourself be hid.
Let only show the meaning,
of what will live on and on,
for your treasure and your gold,
will be dead with you and gone.
Bring back the steps of thunder,
bring back her lightening bold,
be born again a wonder,
of the preciousness you do hold.
There are many beauties in this world,
possessions we hold so dear,
some you can touch and hold,
while others you see and hear.
Some are like the diamonds shine,
some are like the calming sea,
yet no elegance can ever define,
the miracle of She !