Under the summer heat,
They brought Bakrid meat.
The women in aprons,
Embracing the kitchen,
Chopping, cutting, and culinary.
The spices mixed on kebabs,
The redness of the chilli
Surpasses
Her dark-stained henna hands.
Embracing the dungeon,
She sweats, smiling, setting the fire.
Yes, under the summer heat,
As they brought the Bakrid meat,
The table is set neat,
The folk smile, sitting in every seat.
But to eat?
Who gets to burn their feet?
Oh, to be a woman in an apron,
Who is full after setting the table.
As they all eat, discussing family fables,
Her hunger was filled by witnessing others eat.
To her, her plate
“Was to serve others and treat.”
Oh, to be a woman in an apron.
Don’t sigh, even for fun.
And they teased her amidst the chores:
“Wish it burned you more.”
She smirks, as it was just the same lore,
As she gets ready to set the table for another four.
by Atoofa Nasiha
(Written with the burnt hand)
