The old woman shifts in her bed
The curtains fly, the birds twitter.
Sun had never wished to trade,
Gold spill on every pauper's feet.
The old woman cries
Pain ties her to the bedsheets
The son's care,
The granddaughter's touch
Effaced by fate's wipe.
Death in its usual outcast's ways,
Her tears track moments suffered
In wait of the cloaked nomad.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
