The Jungle In Her

Her cry at birth is music
Then they say it’s her habit
She’s weak , she’s small
It’s the jungle she calls.

She has to be silent
Standing tall is defiance
Dressed obediently in overalls,
It’s the jungle she calls.

The leaves tell her to lose
A bit of her work blues
And to stop the endless scrawls
It’s the jungle she calls.

She’s insolent to refuse 
Or lazy if they muse.
Her confidence slowly falls
It’s the jungle she calls.

She’s born to sew and cook
Her career choices get ‘the look’.
Abilities are sheathed by the pall
It’s the jungle she calls.

She craves to rustle her hair,
She’s bold enough to dare.
Yet her existence is small?
It’s the jungle she calls.

She’s never a writer or a gun
She’ll always be a ‘female one’
One day, out she crawls
It’s the jungle she calls.

The burn in her eyes
The freedom in her size.
Her aura is fireballs
It’s the jungle she calls.

A place to soak the sun
A haven of endless fun.
A park to climb trees
A space to scream free.

The jungle gives her Wings
Her boldness makes her sing
She’s cool as the shade 
Yet sharp as a blade.

She’s a dove for those who love
A tigress for them who distress
Needs no permission from above
To be her own mistress.

She’s delicate as snow
She swims against the flow.
Her bosom is quietening
Her charge is lightning.

She’s quiet yet her ‘soul’ speaks
Doesn’t care if called freaks.
All she wants is to dwell
In open hearts , not dark wells.

The jungle gives her freedom
It’s the remedy to her boredom.
When the world treats her as a rag doll,
It’s the jungle she calls.

-Apoorva Das

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