A Real Women

A woman who can be bought is not worth keeping. She is no different from a shelf item with a price tag, Picked up, paid for, and carried away. True worth has no currency. A real woman is priceless. There is no sum that can purchase her soul, No vault deep enough to hold her value. For when you buy something, you own it You bend it to your will, Use it until it’s worn, Then replace it when it breaks. A woman who can be bought Is like a wild fig tree by the roadside: When it bears fruit, every passing hand reaches, Every mouth claims a taste. She becomes a public well Open to all, Sacred to none. But a real woman She is rare earth. She bleeds love, not for show, but from depth. Respect is the language she speaks, Even in silence. Loyalty is the cloak she wears, Not because she must, But because her heart knows no other way. She does not echo the world’s noise. She is the calm in the storm, The fire that warms but does not burn, The root that holds when winds rage. You will not find her in the marketplace, Shouting for attention. She is found in the quiet In the way she prays for you when you’re not looking.