(for her; she who suffers silently)

It’s not just a river
But a river bending through
Pain and a road forking.

It’s not a stem of tender
But a branch of summer leaves
Branching out to the sun
Wilt further dry and dry
She did.

It’s the bone-dry hands
A cup to plead --
A cup to contain sky’s tears:
April’s first refuse.

It’s the barren soil she
Whose face is drought
Awaiting river’s touch:
A profuse of fresh blood.