"The Delicate Gender"
Have you ever watched a rose bloom in silence?
No noise, no cry for praise—
Just gently, gracefully, spreading fragrance.
That rose opens not for itself,
But for someone else.
And even if it's plucked,
It doesn't complain—
It simply leaves its scent behind.
Such is a being...
Whom the world calls "The Delicate Gender."
Have you ever tried holding dew in your hands?
It falls to the earth—
But not before giving life to a flower.
A woman's delicacy is just like that—
It holds both pain and strength,
Silence and impact.
She may break...
Yet she pieces herself back together, smiling for everyone.
Sometimes, she's a mother—
who sacrifices day and night without expecting anything.
Sometimes, a daughter—
who silently buries her dreams.
Sometimes, a sister—
who prays for you while speaking little of herself.
And sometimes, a wife—
who completes you with her very being.
But we reduced her to just "weak"?
Dismissed her by calling her simply "delicate"?
She doesn't crave noise—
She prefers silence, for her heart dwells in remembrance.
Every time she says "I'm fine,"
There's a storm raging within.
A woman is not just a gender—
She is a symbol of sacredness.
She is the greatness of Fatimah,
The loyalty of Khadijah,
The patience of Asiyah,
And the purity of Maryam.
If she were truly weak,
She could never be a mother.
If she were meaningless,
The Qur'an wouldn't honor her with the command of kindness.
Why was a thorn written into the destiny of every rose?
Why is this the fate of love, again and again?
The eyes that once held dreams,
Now reflect only humility—why?
That voice which once healed hearts,
Now every word is marked by sorrow—why?
Your presence once surrounded me like fragrance,
Why has it too fallen victim to betrayal?
When she stayed silent, the world called her voiceless—
When she spoke, her words were labeled a sin.
Why did we label the delicate gender delicate?
Why did we expose her so-called "weakness" to the world?
Didn't they know her fragility was her beauty?
They compared her to flowers, petals, butterflies, innocence—
Called her delicate,
But forgot to also write honor, status, and comfort beside it.
The one who wrote the first word,
Wrote every pain as beginning and every feeling as end.
"She Who Is Delicate... But Not Weak"
Have you ever seen a butterfly take flight in silence?
No sound, no complaint—
Just a gentle flutter,
And in moments, the air is filled with fragrance.
A woman is just like that—
Soft, but never helpless.
Silent, but never powerless.
She may appear delicate on the surface,
But within her lives a universe of resilience.
She buries her pain within her chest,
And becomes a prayer for someone else.
She quietly sacrifices her dreams,
To light the path to someone else's destiny.
Sometimes, she is a mother—
Who grows peace for her children upon the grave of her own sleep.
Sometimes, a daughter—
Who holds stones in her heart just to become her father's pride.
Sometimes, a sister—
Who speaks less so your prayers echo louder.
And sometimes, a wife—
Who dissolves her colors into your being and makes you whole.
And yet…
We called her merely "the delicate gender"?
We praised only her beauty—
And ignored her endurance, her patience, her sacrifice?
If only we understood…
Her softness is not her weakness.
It is the most graceful form of strength.
If she were weak,
She wouldn't smile through her pain.
If she were meaningless,
God wouldn't have honored her as mercy itself.
She bears wounds silently,
Yet never refuses to carry the burdens of others.
She breaks inwardly,
Yet becomes a prayer in prostration for someone else's healing.
A woman is not just a body—
She is a living story—of patience, loyalty, sacrifice, and love.
She is not merely delicate—
She is the most exquisite masterpiece of God's creation...