A hooded figure. I can’t see her face
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Which is behind a cage of embroidery.
She’s stirring rice, mute as a dog.
There’s no reason to hum or smile, in her
World, where rape and death are unwelcome guests
And the night prays on her battered life,
Like a vulture that enjoys its carrion.
Bruises on her hands, from heartless shoes.
Do I dare approach her, tell her she’s not alone?
Shall I venture, in the face of Death?
May I talk to her of sunlight and stars
When all she knows is that the serpent hisses
Where the sweet bird sings? I dare not.
For I am her. And this is my fate.
Servitas a Periculum
Servatis a Maleficum