I scrub and scrub
but still the blood pours down.
A constant stream of fresh and fertile juice
oozing from the humid cavern of my womb.
I step myself from the sanctuary of the shower,
robe myself in white,
I let nature cast its spell,
run its course
in crimson streams
trickling down my thighs
catching on that forest of wire-dark hair
like raindrops clinging to dry winter branches.
The blood paints my skin,
a red marble cutting.
Against the canvas of my lightning-scarred flesh
I think it may be art.
Wonderful! Every word, every sentence, penned with an artistic flow. Well articulated. A deserving 100/10. With this poem, which could be a real experience in a woman's life (and be looked down upon), the poet has made it into a beautiful art. In glorifying something which (although does need to be glorified) still isn't accepted as nature's beauty at work in many parts of the world, this poem has glorified womanhood. I love it.