I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
And then a plank in reason broke
And I dropped down and down
And hit a world at every plunge--
And finished knowing then.
by Emily Dickinson
Há todas as mulheres que, dia após dia, lutam e sobrevivem à sociedade patriarcal e machista. A luta e o reconhecimento não podem ser limitados apenas a uma data.
Oito de março: mais um dia de luta para todas as mulheres que sentem seus corpos e almas roubadas. Que se sentem pisoteadas pelas botas alheias.
Ornella Dapuzzo
