The Widow
The widow
What about the first rays of each dawn,
Does recall her from the land of slumber?
What does announce that the night’s gone
To release her from each night’s cumber?
Owning no cockerels to herald the morning,
With shrill. anticipatory predawn crows
Is there then, a scent that’s adorning
Of dawn, only discernible by her nose?
Awake, she never does lumber about,
As one in the daze of insufficient sleep,
Her chores, efficiently she does carry out;
Her progeny, she must slave for their keep.
Her aching palms, withered and abrasive,
Are blistered in testament to years of toil,
But never a deterrent into being dismissive
Of a menial job, even the carter of night soil.
She’d sworn to never use as the egress-
Her body, from a poverty that’s truly abject;
The goatish rich feeding off her distress
And making her the village gossip’s subject
Her children’s dreams she’d rather marry;
Never by tradition, her late husband’s brother
Forsaken by most, her suffering may tarry,
But this shameful custom, she’d help smother!
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