We do not delve deep in its foundation,
Powders and creams that capture men.
Men are moths held up to a rain’s light
To briefly live and die for our meaning.

We do not care for knots of hem cloth
Nor creamy romance of a glass of milk
Nor the heady jasmines on bridal beds.

These are merely made up by mamas,
Who mistake the trees for the woods.
What matters is   we make up enough
Meaning for moths to die by our light.

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