Loathe being born as a woman,
As have to serve yeomen,
First to obey the parents,
Second to go behind the husband,
Third look after the children,
Best of all to appease the society.
A woman is compared to a flower,
Soft, delicate and tender,
As a rough handle destroys the flower,
So a tough stand shatters the woman.
While the flower loses its beauty,
The woman’s grace vanishes mostly.
While her patience is misunderstood,
Her sincerity is exploited,
As her slogging is made use of,
Her cry for recognition,
Is not taken care of.
Leaving her at man’s mercy.
She toils day in and day out,
Un mindful of her health,
Never paying attention to her welfare,
Always putting her family first ,
By stooping to low ebbs,
Granting a happy 
picture perfect.
Confined by limitations,
As she is from the weaker sex,
Restricted by the filial ties,
As she is governed by the family,
She untiringly goes about,
Thinking of nothing great.
Later her body crumbles due to age,
Her legs wobble under pressure,
The hands present an awkward move,
While her face acquires a gaunt,
She staggers along the way,
Awaiting the call of the day.
Meenas Poems 