Call it a curse or heaven’s own luck, For Earth to have beings born to mock. Women — they say — are always right, Even when we tremble at their very sight. Strange are they, in ways we can’t know, Walking straight lines, yet bending the flow. We dare not say she’s wrong — for she is this: Heaven’s blessing, and tears of God’s wish. More interesting than all of my days, Smooth in her walk, yet fierce in her ways. I climb for her, she slips to the deep, I stay awake, while she falls asleep. And boy… why am I always the one who’s wrong? While she stands proud, singing her song. She wins the battle, I look naive — A sweet little curse as she burns my hive.