Thorn Hacker

By U. Fathima Farzana

Who is she? That little black back-bent maid;

Hair in knots, cocooned in rags,

Eyes dark, skin dark, lips parched,

Limbs deformed, yet still working,

Toiling hard in the thorn field

Stretching far into the distant horizon;

Thorn bushes everywhere, the spoilt land

An arid desert kissed passionately by the sun

But a providing gentle mother for her.

The little babe tied to her back moans –

Hunger? Pain? Heat? Desolation?

Poverty reincarnated for generations?

The poor victim groans; it’s eyes do not produce tears.

The woman comforts it by patting,

Her rough hands make it scream.

She thrusts a palm of water in its mouth.

There isn’t any milk…no rice for her to produce milk.

The infant is popped into its saddle of coarse cloth,

Back to thorn hacking..to feed more parched mouths at home.

The sun leaves her alone,

So do the snakes, scorpions and centipedes.

Dusk. The sun goes mercifully down.

Time to go home.

She ties the thorn branches over her head,

Sings a lullaby for her still crying babe –

A lullaby where a princess grows up

Spoilt, too nourished in a palace –

The shack by the dried up pond

Fills with shrieks of hunger as she nears,

She ignores her own belly growling.

A single dancing wick provides light

While a tiny pot of rice boils over

Crack! An accident…the pot breaks.

Wails of hunger all night long,

Not a wink of sleep.

Dawn. Back to work. She picks the babe…

What’s this? Skin cold as ice?

Oh, my God! My sweet child!

My golden child? What did you know of poverty?

Why did God create you?

Why was I your mother? I’m…

There are no tears. There are no burials.

Only the glaring heat of the sun

To cremate all lost souls.

By U. Fathima Farzana