Nefertiti was never a friend of mine.
She was a sister, born of urbanity
while natural grace belongs to me.
Her beauty was firestarter,
while my form is a soft whisper,
the essence of womanhood, she upholds,
but my feet are like oil wells, pumping liquid gold.


I am poignant, enigmatic,
making my bed on the fertile crescent,
persevering in all things benign,
drawing in peace with only a soft-spoken sigh.
My hands have toiled tirelessly
‘til they were scarred and searing,
and sweet oils have anointed my forehead,
no more dismay or futile disconcert ahead;
I've turned bitter water into honey
just by being a real woman, phenomenally,
every hope, every promise, every dream,
I've become, indeed.
All this I did with earnest, solemn tears...
but so did Nefertiti ten thousand years ago.


Paths I've painted in pure black and white,
a breakthrough of seas of light;
I've won a million Nobel prizes,
been tagged, "most cognizant" or "wisest",
yet, I know I still have to bow my eyes
to forerunners who were sublime.