He said:
Have you noticed how the sun commands the sky
bold, blazing, untouchable?
She smiled:
And how the moon listens
soft, steady, and never once needing to burn?
He said:
Fire must be a man - restless, hungry, loud.
She replied:
Then water is surely a woman
quiet, patient, but strong enough to carve canyons.
He teased:
Isn’t logic masculine?
She countered:
Only if emotion is feminine
and both are useless without the other.
He smirked:
Strength is a man’s trait.
She tilted her head:
Yet childbirth is not for the weak.
He whispered:
Desire… now that must be a woman.
She leaned in:
And control? That, my dear, is a man’s fantasy.
He said:
Betrayal wears a woman’s perfume.
She said:
And vengeance wears a man’s cologne.
He said:
War is written in a man’s script.
She replied:
But peace is cradled in a woman’s hands.
He paused, then confessed:
The world may have been built by men…
She completed him:
But it is held together by women.
They sat in silence,
neither victorious,
both understood.
Because every question seeks to conquer -
and every answer longs to heal.
This piece is a poetic exploration of the magnetic tension between masculine fire and feminine grace - where wit flirts with vulnerability, and mockery gives way to meaning. It’s not a battle of genders, but a dance of energies drawn to complete each other in heat, in hush, and in heart.
