The soft wind combed her silken hair,
She stood there
Looking at me; a mere mortal she saw
Looking at her shawl.
I saw the accursed bruises she bore
Like a slave at the oar;
Her silver skin striped in black and blue
(She wished I knew).
Her wilted lips losing their colour,
Cut; what horror!
Her clothes told not of misery, but of fights;
Even through long nights,
The clashing of metal. “Oh! Such is not woman’s mettle”,
Myself I said to.
Then she uttered a ghastly echo, as if in strain:
I’ve tried to cross, and have suffered like He on the cross”
I was so cross!
I stood wondering at the sight at Earth’s borders.
But worse yet are the plights of my earthly brothers
Who shunned this beauty. May Destiny forgive us.