tw: menstruation, domestic violence

She sank in the ground, the valorous emir

For she had just fought a war

Victor or no, still stands unclear

Oblivious to pain, that came in galore

Her thatched hut dripped just like her

Water or blood, no difference at all

Cigar burnt hands, vision a blur

Her back cut by leather, stinking of alcohol

The middle of her legs, as she bathed

Bled an entire river, her blood-soaked clothes

a daily chore and yet her heart unscathed

bore an old armor, the same shade of primrose

The war, to be fought every month

You can call it her own crusade

Stretched for days as outside he galumphed

Her supposed better half, who often tore her brocade

The warrior who had eternal strength

Felt herself sinking to the ground, yet again

For death cap mushrooms grew at length

in the forest between her legs, nurtured by a monthly rain

She sufficed without artillery for a time so long

For he would spend the gold on his cigars

Weakened a little, nevertheless headstrong

She would return victorious, to be greeted with deeper scars

Brave emir, your gallantry I bow down to

You battled with all your might

Your dilapidated hut, now sacred with crimson hue

Narrates your tale, filled with pride