I see her standing in all her pride.
From a distance i notice her majestic stride.
Attracted by her, towards her I ride.
Getting closer the apparition dawns,
Standing ahead is a distraught damsel torn.
Her shambles tell a story forelorn
of times good and bad she's borne.
I look in her eyes, those beautifull brown delight;
Would have commanded once, an army without respite.
Now she hides them with shame and despise.
She looks here and there with humbling spite.
That scarless face in its majesty she beholds
Standing the test of time it beckons me towards;
With pity and compassion i approach her, hands cold
to offer alms and a prayer of solicitude.
She looks up, her pride unmistaken.
Smiles and refuses that i had given.
And utters to my surprise the cuckoo voice-
"Not alms I beg for, nor I seek your prayer,
My condition lay be, for its caused by my own vice."
To this i stood wondering
How can something as beautifull come to err
She shows me the box and unravels the mystery
Ahead stood Pandora, regretting the mistake she dint foresee.
She blamed herself for the misery,
For all the ills, Of human deviance and indulgence,
And the unseen that ought to bereave man of peace and humanity.
Unsure of what to say, i utter a word or two of solace
"With all evils released the box still holds hope within;
In spite of all the ills we still have hope to live with.
If not, there would be no reason for us to exist."