Within the spirit of times' lost travel
drifting within the portals of time,
I glimpse the duration of your struggle
the wearing of times' own toil.
"Yes, you are battered, but not broken,
your head is bloody but unbowed,
the fire crackles sharply within your eyes
a nature shaped in predatory instinct,
survival the only token of escape."
And yet, the little girl still dares to dream,
to spit against the wind,
to run the race, lessor others avoid...
Eyes of blazing coals, a smile of cold steel wrath,
the lady swaggers unscathed through the macho crowd,
in an air of quiet, secure confidence, courage to overflowing....
Yes, I am come of age, as all my sisters must,
to be the mistress of our destiny, accomplishments of our time....
March 2000, "S.T." Interview sections you may visit (click)
Other poetry by "S.T."