In the Hour of Exile
In the North, with alabaster skies glow,
A woman-child waits
As Autumn sings to the corn grinders below.

Fishers cradle dreams in a song of the sea,
As a woman-child watches
They cast nets of hope in praise of eternity.

The weavers spin threads of past and future tales,
As the woman-child listens
While dancers whirl beneath moonlit veils.

In the bazaars, the bangle sellers cry,
As the woman-child weeps
Their voices rise as a hymn to the eternal sky.

The snake charmer plays on his flute a tune,
And the woman-child remembers
A melody of ecstasy under the silver moon.

The Indian gypsy tells of life and loss,
the woman-child speaks
Of the Queen’s Rival and the shadow she casts.

The Royal Tomb stands, a monument to strife,
as the woman-child receives
A gift from the ages of love in life.

Street cries reach as far as the forest dense,
As the woman-child grows old
youth fades from her smile, leaving a transient sense.

The bangle sellers, the fishers, the bearers of dreams,
remember the woman-child and
All sing to the rhythm of life’s flowing streams.

In praise of her own beauty, she stands,
In exile, the woman-child
the Indian gypsy with calloused hands.

The soul’s prayer twines through the bazaars,
And the woman-child writes,
Guided by the light of eternal stars.

To my children, I leave this lore,
of the woman-child in exile.
of bangle sellers and fishers on the shore.