Morning falls upon the land,
the smell of flowers on her hand
And carries on her hip a casket,
a small and handled woven basket
So the road sweeps her along,
forward into roller song
A city built with sun's cruel streak,
determined mind, refined physique
Not once betraying hunger's pang,
collectively her songs she sang
A gatherer of life's full blessing,
challenged with such things distressing
Chanting by a pebble-dash grave,
the babies' life refused to save
Married when she was just ten,
became a widower's wife again
And with a symbol on her breast,
her soul was now his to ingest
A girl who smiled with cemetery eyes,
slavery - but in disguise
A storm could never hold her back,
remove this innate need to hack
Curling clouds with fearsome colour,
managed not to scare this mother
Not once a cough of discontent,
no leading sadness to ferment
She couldn't think, nor understood,
why hunger can't persuade the good
Morning falls upon the land,
the smell of fresh hay on her hand
Lays a dried flower on the mound,
and thanks God for her stamping ground
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