Photograph by Steve McCurry
The things they did have not been buried yet.
A fire in the eyeball flickers rage,
A daughter does not easily forget.
Although their secrets curl around the ends
Of a swollen tongue, too trembling to say,
The things they did have not been buried yet.
She wears her shoulders with a deep regret.
Around them wraps a mother’s scarlet shame,
A daughter does not easily forget.
Do not dismiss the silent, bowing head;
This is no docile beast that can be tamed,
The things they did have not been buried yet.
A thousand strangled souls have come to rest
Inside the dark of her, igniting flame,
A daughter does not easily forget.
It is a place beyond religion, where the wet
Brows of beaten women lie in graves.
The things they did have not been buried yet.
A daughter does not easily forget.
