What then is feminism?
We continue to declare our capability to be all accomplished by ourselves,
never possess the thought for any man to save us.
We sojourn in agony, poisoned by the fear of being all alone by
trading in our strength of becoming independent.
What then is friendship?
For some moments,
to be fine for all until betrayal slips in.
What then is motherhood?
A stillbirth, ready to depart willingly,
never a single thought
for the poor mother.
What then is love?
So unstable, so restless,
forever on the move,
like a truck.