Infant harvest:
The seedling’s growth
Is cut short by the tie
Of the veil and chains
Of merciless zabla.

The angel of death rips
The soul of my childhood.
And places the corpse of my body
In the dungeon of marriage.

I am unfound at the playgrounds.
It’s my turn to skip the rope
But I skipped one already
With tears unto laden sheets.
To feed a chasing libido !!

Who hears the silence of my cries at night ?
Who sees the tears of my dreams ?
The pan sinks my neck
My head is small. I am unready !

I smear the stoves
With my infant hands.
Father, if this is my path you chose
Send more my siblings.
But poverty shall more grow !!

© Lansah Lawrence
June 19, 2017.


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