She held a heap of firewood
Atop her tender head
Walking down the narrow road
That led to her hamlet.

That old banyan tree couldn't
Allure her with its shade
Nor the burning sideways
Could force her pace to jade.

No sign of sorrow, grief or pain
As quiet as she could be
Would death alter her calm
Or would it set her free.

Prashant Shaurya ©

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