My Mother at 12
As I sit in my buoyant palace, I wonder at my fate.
At 12, She wakes up at dawn to fetch and clean;
Before she struggles to prepare the family meal.
At 12, Her tender back is bent from the load she struggles with;
A weight heavier than her, but she carries it still.
At 12, Her hands are chafed from scraping the char off the pot;
The black coal more natural on her,she bothers not to wash.
At 12, Her worry lines are deeply etched in;
The trials and pains her mother had bore are now her cross to carry.
At 12, She has already felt the harsh blow of her husbands fist;
As she continually fails in her service to him.
At 12, Her feet are used to the sun burnt path to the water hole;
As to it she trudges day and night in duty to provide for her family.
At 12, Her waist has carried the burden of life;
And she loses more of her essences with each strife.
At 12, My mother carries me in her womb;
And I wonder at my fate as a girl coming into the world she knows.