Femininity... Bird's eye view - II

Tired of flying up and down, the bird searched for a shade to sit and relax.  The place is full of buildings of stories after stories.  Tired of sitting on the concrete walls the bird decided to search for a tree to sit on its branch.  He flew for miles to find one and sat on it.  A nasty noise disturbed the bird.  He looked up to the sky for the roaring clouds; no, it was a machine with fangs not just one but in hundreds of fangs that saw the trunk.  The bird understood that the tree he found will lay and soon die so he has to leave.  Suddenly the sound went off and when the bird look down the machine stopped working.  The workers went away.  Thank the holy technology, the axe was long forgotten.  May the brains that operate the hands change its mind to stop killing my shade, prayed the bird.
        Now that he has some leisure time to enjoy the temporary shade he looked around in tranquil.  Bunch of humans, few were harnessed to their dogs that walked before them and few were carrying their off-springs who, one day, will walk away from them.  There were few young girls in their colorful attire.  Long and short were their wardrobes.  Those who dressed less were the one that veiled their brain with longest cloth of equality and individuality and those who covered them more were the one that who dressed their brain to the minimum thinking their individuality was their native femininity.  There is no female in a male, he will look all hands and legs may be tough and tight but there is a male in every female.  She could rule the world same time ruin the world.
        The bird cried: O! Beauty gender of humans, think not that you are what you dress; wardrobes are just to cover your skin and flesh.  You could walk and talk like the petals of rose or be stubborn and rigid like that of the thorns of its stem.  Do not become a hybrid with the words of the so-called activist and become stems without thorns or petals with thorns. Be tough in your stems and elegantly soft in your petals that are what makes a rose a rose.  Let your skin be exposed or you make a choice to expose your heart, people look at only what they want waste not your time on what others think but think on how well you proclaim yourself.  May you announce yourself with high regards!
        By the time the birds cry was over he saw a girl walking towards.  She was dressed neither too short nor too long.  She looked like a native rose with softest petals and sharpest thorns.  Her legs were strong though her walk was like breeze.  She swayed her fingers like jasmine dancing to a song and moved benevolently like a vine moving in wind.  So much was the enchantment to see her walk by as the aroma of the herbs she used activated the nerves of the nostrils’.  She was not fair but her genes were not unfair, her dusky skin glowed like gold in the golden sun rays.  May the sun go blind in the process of tanning her skin!  Like a cradle she moved her hips to and fro and she knows one day it will become a cradle for a little one to sleep.
        She is a cup filled with femininity, it is a cup of elixir no more drop could be added and not one drop could be taken out. Deep in the heart the bird thought: may all the empty cups be filled with elixir.  As the bird was looking at her, she stopped to see the bleeding tree. Could she do something to stop the tree to cry?  No use as the trunk was half depleted.  She took a small branch from the tree and caressed the half broken trunk.  O! My lovely lady, cried the bird: I could see your heart that you expose, I could hear what your fingers said to the tree: ‘my friend, I am taking a part of your heart in my hand and will plant in some distant land where I can water it and grow. I will tell him one day that you lived in this land and gave shade and purified oxygen. Worry not; what my kind is killing is not you but the future generation.’ 
    My beautiful lady, you exposed your heart to the world taught everything could be rebuild and the generation coming next would not become extinct.  The aura you spread is more feminine, mercy is feminine, and bravery is feminine. With little melancholy in her heart, she smiled at the branch to see a new life that she is going to give to the world.  Motherhood is feminine.
Enough food she gave for his thought now the bird wants some for his little stomach.  When he was about to fly the tree spoke from his death bed ‘hey little creation who rested on my branch, all the fruits are stolen but one was hidden take it and eat before I fall and it gets trodden.’ Listening to which the bird fasted for the day.