The Broom: A World Warrior's Tool

 

In a woman's strong hand, the broom's true power resides,

From kitchen's clean corner, to courtyard's broad sweep, her strength it provides.

For in her firm grip, the housewife transforms,

A world warrior, weathering life's storms.

Sweeping away grime, and banishing fear,

Protecting her loved ones, held ever so dear.

With each determined stroke, a silent decree,

For health, and for joy, for her family's glee.

Yet, this humble tool, through ages has flown,

More than just bristles, a handle of its own.

From hearth to high, where shadows play,

A besom waits to start its day.

No humble sweeper, naught so plain,

It rides the winds and dances rain.

It lifts from dust, a whispered sigh,

And sweeps the circle 'neath the sky.

To banish gloom, to clear the air,

A silent promise, everywhere.

Through moonlit groves, on mystic flights,

It weaves through stars and ancient nights.

Not wood alone, but woven spell,

Where secrets of the old world dwell.

Its journey crossed a darker line,

In Kerala's past, a telling sign.

Once, on a throne, of British decree,

A broom sat enthroned, for all to see.

But dust lay thick where power resided,

A rule disconnected, by few presided.

A symbol then, of cold, distant might,

Ignoring the masses, shrouded in night.

Then came a shift, in a deceitful guise,

When frauds with smooth words, and cunning in their eyes,

Claimed common folk's name, their trust to ensnare,

And the broom became a mark, for their corrupt affair.

A badge of false promise, on ill-gotten hoard,

A simple tool's image, by tricksters adored.

And folk tales still whisper, of shadows so deep,

Where a sorcerer's ally, secrets would keep.

The broom, a dark consort, in mystical dread,

On wicked enchantments, its presence was fed.

A tool for dark magic, in eerie moonbeams,

The witch's swift flight, through unsettling dreams.

Beyond the hearth, beyond the gate,

The broom's silent power seals our fate.

No king on throne, no crown on head,

But by its silent sweep, our paths are led.

For roads, it sets the very course,

Not with decree, but with subtle force.

It clears the way for traveler's tread,

Sweeping old doubts, and fears ahead.

In bustling cities, where towers aspire,

Its presence governs, cleansing urban fire.

Not just the grime on cobbled stone,

But hidden corruption, silently overthrown.

And in grand mansions, where riches reside,

Its enduring presence cannot be denied.

Though opulence gleams, and wealth holds its sway,

Dust gathers still, at the close of the day.

So remember the broom, in its journey so vast,

A symbol of eras, from present to past.

From ritual's magic, to empire's cold reign,

To deceit's dark betrayal, and a woman's true gain.

From roads to grand mansions, its unseen command,

A pervasive power, across the whole land.

In Kerala's soul, its saga lives on,

From ancient deep lore, to the breaking of dawn.