Four kinds of women walk this earth,
each with her own unyielding birth.
One drifts daily from hand to hand,
chasing fire that cannot stand.
One builds her nest on career and kin,
speaks tender words, keeps warmth within.
One bends her mind to the edge of new,
a seeker of wonders, of hidden truths.
And then the fourth, the wreath at her side,
a silent witness the others deride.
Pushed, ignored, in shadows she stays,
yet carries the weight of unspoken days.