I speak to the sky, despite what they say.
''They say the sky doesn't hear you, old woman.''
I’m not old; my hair was shaved to fulfill a custom demand.
I climb the hill barefooted, with tears in my heart's sight.
I see what others miss; I see perfection in the sky's embrace.
Beauty that's found perfection in my vision's space
Yesterday, I spoke to the sky—not to cry, not to wet Mother Earth with tears.
But to sing as a symbol of sacrifice, to make the sky hear my horn
I'm outside my hut, washing with ashes and stones.
For three days, there has been no sun, just cloudiness and mourning.
But I knew today would bring the sun's warm rays.
I begged the sky to shine, to shine so bright.
To take the sun high, to shine on the mountain
I rinsed my soapy clothes in the gentle fountain stream.
And spread them on the mountain.
I was told not to mix my agony with others's pain.
I never picked this fate; I never wanted it.
I'm the mother of a dead husband whose child looks through windoms.
A constant reminder of the love, loss, joy, and sorrow we endure.
I grieve for my aborted fetus, a pain that never fades.
But still, I'll keep speaking to the sky, despite doubts and fears that invade.
#Marixbell
#notapoet