The cry of an alarm wakes her,
she opens her eyes not by will,
but by the fatigue of time,
and it is dawn on the outside...

The unseen aches of her body,
from them again she hides,
pieces of her body and soul,
they who care not anyway...

Her knees buckle and she falls,
she gets up with a sigh,
dizzy from an empty heart,
a helping hand never in sight...

The unrelenting chimes of the church,
remind her of her duties,
she sets off to finish them,
the bruise all but forgotten...

As breakfast is served,
their chatter just a haze,
who is to know of her thoughts,
of her tears behind closed doors...

Three times under the knife,
three times of pain and love,
into this world new life,
and that from her it stole....

The heat of the noon sun,
the sweat on her brow,
she doesn't notice,
the beauty of the river flow...

Instinct more than want,
the waiting pangs of hunger,
as she sets the lonely table,
she waits for Him to hunger...

He sits there smoking a cigar,
lost in his book again,
the one he's read a million times,
why does he love it so?

The afternoon is welcome,
lost in dreams forgotten,
awake in a while again,
for she lives to serve Them...

Who knew it would come to this,
when he had said he loved her,
did he mean he needed her,
or was it that he had wanted her...

She closes that door,
the one that opens everyday,
the one to the outside,
to where the children play...

The evening passes by,
in chores she'd rather do,
for thoughts she didn't want,
waited for her mind to idle...

Her sons are back,
from the fields in the day,
and frolic in the eve,
drunk and shouting like everyday...

She cleans their mess,
takes off their worn shoes,
smiling at them in their sleep,
with love unfathomable...

She walks out to the porch,
the sky red from the setting sun,
she stares at nothing letting all go,
and those thoughts pour in....

The door is open again,
and try as she may,
it will not close,
the other side it wants to show...

The hoot of an owl,
wakes her from the trance,
it is night already,
and moist are her eyes...

She cries then,
like she has before,
silently yet with such sorrow,
she sheds that lonely tear...

A tear not for what has gone ,
but for tomorrow,
a tear for now and later,
cause she can change neither...

The groan of her bed,
reminds her of that day,
when to her he had said,
all there was to say...

But as she closes her eyes,
and her thoughts in darkness choke,
she cannot remember,
the last time she spoke....


:\ said…
Beautifully represents the daily ritual of an oppressed, dutiful wife. Definitely one of the best poems I have read till date.

Popular Posts