Impure

In the quiet of dawn, she began her day,
Sweeping, scrubbing, tending each corner,
A dance of broom and cloth, a silent ballet,
Her hands, the maestros of order.

Dusting off shelves, arranging each shelf,
Her heart a temple, her home a shrine,
In the quiet solitude, she found herself,
In the rhythm of chores, a sacred design.

With care she sought, a deity divine,
From the hands of a sculptor, skilled and sure,
An idol of lord, a treasure to enshrine,
In the sanctum of her humble abode, so pure.

But fate’s cruel twist, on that auspicious day,
As she readied to place the lord with grace,
Her body whispered secrets, in crimson array,
A visitor unwelcome, yet she embraced.

Yet voices arose, from the depths of fear,
Whispers of impurity, staining the air,
“Leave, you’re unclean,” they cried, severe,
Her heart shattered, in silent despair.

Alone she stood, in the shadow’s embrace,
Her temple forsaken, her offerings denied,
Yet in her solitude, she found her grace,
A goddess in her own right, undenied.

For purity lies not in a drop of red,
But in the spirit that perseveres and endures,
She, the keeper of hearth, in the dance she led,
A woman, a goddess, forever pure.