Break the glass ceiling, you say.
You were meant to be more
Than a keeper of things
Around the space trapped within walls.
You were designed to paint
Pictures on canvasses
Craving for the touch of eternity.
You were meant, you say,
To shower a trail of gold dust
Which will crystallize into
A name that will be yours.
I walk among the lesser known, I say
And sprinkle showers of hope.
I touch the lives of ordinary travellers
As they touch mine.
I don’t own a glass ceiling –
The sky is mine, as it is yours.
Greatness lies also, in ordinary deeds
That touch a million lives.
Is that not enough?