Women! You are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened by service; confined within
The ashen heat of your masters,
Burning with broken promises and matrimonial taboos
To serrate your body-scape
With the silent scars of motherhood.

Women you are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened in the mockery of smokes
To breastfeed the old and the young,
To endure the heat of the fire of contentment
Scorching on your livid black skin.

Women! You are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened by the blazing fires of their guns
That sang the songs of their unsatiated desires
To set within you a room
Binding you to the ropes of a kitchen.

Women! You are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened by the saprophytic suckling dance
Of the fire set within you to cremate your landscape
With your own mammary sweat.

Women! You are like our tripodal Firestones
Blackened by the heat of the very guns
That left you wailing along the fireplace
With the fire of their unquenchable fires
Combusting your dreams; your equality.