The Soil Will Remember

 

She was given, not asked -

A girl wrapped in the quiet of custom.

Barely woman, yet bound to a man

Who called her “wife” before she found her voice.

 

Her days were numbered by swollen moons,

Her body a vessel - again, again.

Year after year, a child, a cry,

And still no time to mourn her name.

 

She learned to hush the ache in her bones,

To smile when hollowed, to rise when torn.

They praised her strength, but never asked

What bled behind that praise each morn.

 

Her youth, a memory swallowed whole,

Her dreams traded for goat skins and pride.

She cooked, she birthed, she knelt, she served - 

And never once was she asked, “Are you alive?”

 

Now her hands are worn, her breath is slow,

The walls lean in with quiet dread.

Will her children know the weight she bore,

Or will she take it to the dead?

 

But listen- beneath the earth, the roots still hum.

They drink her tears, her pain, her fire.

The soil will remember what the world forgot:

A mother buried, but never expired.

Reviews

[Steven]

Very pensive. You have a knack for written voice.