Angelic voices called to her
She faltered at beauty’s sound
She’d thought that she was doing well
Surprised that now she had been found.
The monsoon rains had brought her down
A fever struck so deep
Her strength gave out eventually
Her will began to seep.
She’d worked out in the harshest place
She’d dug and picked and sown
On land that others made profit from
The land was not her own.
She’d even had a child once there
And then just carried on
The baby wrapped up on her back
Her plaintiff cry so wan.
But now the time had come for her
Worn out at forty two
Amidst the constant poverty
Her death was nothing new.
They buried her and carried on
No tears upon their face
The crops still needed planting
Her daughter filled her place.
©Joe Wilson – A poor woman 2014