Mouth stitched with a mask
Especially made for the poor.
Babu’s gate is locked,
The bell is ill
So she leans against the
The gate and waits and wails.
Inside dry leaves and twigs
Mourn with the wind for they miss
Day’s long caring hand.
Half an hour I bask in the glowing sun
And splay my daughter’s wears
Finished, again I turn my eyes to the gate
Again I see the maid leaning still against her mate.
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