Sunday, November 08, 2015


In that dark tunnel
Of a stone children
Playground long gone,
I hide

Paydays a housewife earns
Her fight.

Mother drains salt, draws
Fast words, knife-light
Searches her face
For wounds.

Salt falls, rubs
To pearls
On her short sleeves
Worn thin.

She picks up the pearls
With her eyes to ask,
Sitting in a row,
How precious we shine.

P.S.: Did I get carried away with the first stanza: I am talking about childhood memories! And I think I ran out of steam by that last line...can't think of any word for "shine".

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