The Seven Ages of Women

From infancy, little is expected of a girl
for the crown cannot fit a princess' head,
and a king's cloak about her must not swirl;
only Lord and Prince may fit her bed.

In childhood, what can a girl do?
(For she cannot plant seeds to bed?)
And so she may milk bleating ewe
and wait for courtly boy to wed.

In her aging, she cannot be single -
for what use comes of an old, lone hag?
So if she wants to stay and mingle,
she must do so from the performer's rag.

And when war comes, she will take stand,
for her hands may craft gun and cap,
and her blood the same of her male homeland -
but she may not fill the fallen soldier's gap.

By maternity, she's borne three,
all who earn their keep in suits,
but what she lacks, her gender's fee
compels her to her mother's roots.

Her skin once fair now turns to pale,
and now in age her work relented,
she sits in rest, the news how to hail,
that the corrupt society has repented.

And so she sits, a dying flame,
now free of history's spell.
The society that once ruled her a 'disdain'
now marking her truly equal.