The Longing

The chapped lips told it all, The scars on her face, Fresh, and Sore. Waiting to break free, From the shackles, Of labour, of hatred, Of stereotypes, terribly scathed. There is the thought of a dawn, A dawn where, She sets her own goals, Sets right her own place, Not in the kitchen, And not …

The flower of her grief- Mari Gold

Heavy rain drops, sound of gushing stream, across her humble abode, dawn is nigh yet distant, she sigh. Awaken by her woes, daybreak surfaced, the sun shone brighter then ever. Past her window, she glimpse the meadow turn gold. 'Mari gold' she yelps. - Paradoxical humane