BEAUTIFUL
CRONES
They
are the fireflies
Whose
fires can’t die!
Far
differ from these types;
The glow-worms
of this time.
They
are not these kinds
Who
façade beautiful countenance,
To
cover up the ugly ugliness,
Of their
mind’s black burning furnace.
Beautifully
ugly, yes they are!
But far
better than these kinds
Who have
changed their original kinds
To
something worse from what they are.
Nothing
can taint their dignity,
Perfectly
laid is their pride and sagacity’s veracity,
They
believe the pride in their children prams,
Nothing
would change that; not even zillion pounds.
On
their children
They
would spend the whole year time,
They’ve
got no time to prance,
No iota
time to flaunt
Their
golden rouge from France,
For
they would leave all stands
But not
their husbands’ ranch.
Never
wistful of their wispy hair,
They
like it: their natural kinky hair,
No fake
face implanted,
Nor
fake breast fixing fixated.
They
preserve their ritzy girdles:
A thing
done under their husbands’ aegis,
They
are better than these kinds
Whose
nipples burst through their draperies
Like
flower’s petals of hyacinth.
They
are bankers and sellers in market square,
They
are farmers and cleaners in all works square,
They
are teachers, they are fishers,
They
are hawkers and women in all works square,
Who
work with all their hearts,
Not to
be chatelaines, nor to own golden hats,
Who
immerse their selves in work
For the
future of their lovely wards.
They
are not of these days,
Where
immorality has raped even the saints,
They
wouldn’t doubt their husbands as sages,
For
they have no concubine hidden in cages.
They
may have no banks’ cards
Nor new
or latest of cars,
No
gadgets, nor android phones
Coated
with glitters or golden pads,
No
breast nor behind so large to flaunt,
But one
thing: they are beautiful crones
Who are
sound and beautiful in mind.
The
kinds of them are rare to find,
In
their quest you’ll grim and growl,
This
day, they are rarely scarce,
The ones
you can find are their fragments.
(C) HYBRID
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