The Barren Land

A lovely lady, flowers in hand,
Walks towards the Barren Land
Digs the earth, so dry and firm
Breaks her nail but doesn’t squirm
Spoils her dress, no longer white,
Keeps the fine, little flowers aside,
Wipes the sweat off her face
Then goes back to piercing the hard surface.
A young boy gazes from the other side

Watches her while she strenuously plied.

‘Stupid woman,’ he says, ‘lost her head,

Why else would she dig at a barren land?’
The woman stops and looks at him,
Eyes full of pain and a silent scream,
‘Don’t utter a word, you ignorant lad,
Help me with this, instead,’
‘Say, Lady, don’t you know that this
Land can never birth lilies,
And yet you sit and bleed your hands,
Can’t you see this is a barren land?’
‘This land,’ she says, ‘is my empty soul
My heart, you see, is this hollow hole,
These flowers here, they are mocking Death,
The Orchid, The Aster and The Baby’s Breath’
She picks them up and makes them stand,
Right in the middle of the Barren Land
‘Death took my husband and children two,’
She says as tears block her view.
‘Though dry and dead is what I feel,
These flowers here enlighten me,
In my heart, they will forever stay,
Day after day after day after day.’
‘And even though Death thinks He took,
My beloved ones, I still can look,
Their delightful faces in these, here,
Every single day of every single year!’
And as she dissolved into the night,
The boy gaped at the Moon, so bright,
Below stood the flowers, splendidly grand,
On nothing but a Barren Land.
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