A young lass stumbled right up to my door
her copper skin caked with dirt and exhaust,
wearing a tattered dress, clutching her head,
with her weary fingers on sleepy hands.
I wondered where she came from, where she's been,
for here little girls live wondrous lives,
with satin blue dresses and braids in hair,
not like this darling with pain in her brain.
She told me her life of desolation,
of work in fields and kicks in her side,
where she screamed her words in isolation,
where she was trapped behind her copper skin.
She asked me if I had a place for her,
and I had to ponder of if I did,
because this small child made my heart ache,
but my friends have warned me about her kind.
She looked up at me with big, hopeful eyes,
and her stare attached together our souls,
and I understood: we are but the same,
I took this lass and welcomed her inside.
YOU ARE READING
From My Mind to Yours (2016)
Poesía"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty". (Edgar Allen Poe)
