Photo credit:Bill Hamway(unsplash)

They called you a witch

Bent wrinkled old woman

Stricken with age and misfortune

Your hoarse voice rang out across the yard

And got a swift answer

Mocking sounds of a dying echo

It is true

You visited the diviner’s altar bearing gifts

Scabbed knees bent in supplication

Ransom for your children

Lost in strange lands

Mother of many children

From your loins many have fled

The wrapper that tied the young fledglings

Is worn and torn and wet with tears

You are desolate

Mother whose feeble frame stoops to draw water

Your memory is forgotten

Mother whose black fingers cradles the broken pitcher

When at night you sleep and dream

Tossing restlessly as you call, arms outstretched

To the ones whose faces are black as soot

Haggard mother,be comforted

Your empty yard will rise with dust

Flushed with the weary tread of the pilgrims

Returning from their flight of fancy

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