Tuesday, 24 June 2014


With a baby in her belly & one on her back,

Firewood upon her head, tied up in old sack,

Bare corned feet, plodding burning hot sand,

Walking miles for water, across hard cruel land,

She has no time for love.


Bending, kneeling & digging, old deadened weeds,

Up, down, beneath the sun, planting dried up seeds,

Washing worn out clothe, by the stones in the river,

Protecting frightened babies, at night as they shiver,

She has no time for love.


Gathering roots & herbs, for medicine & scarce food,

Tending the eternal fire & ever lightening the mood,

Stirring black cauldron, for the men-folk coming home,

Never daring to ask them, from where did they all roam?

She has no time for love.


She´s the backbone of the continent, nation & the village,

She´s the first to fall as victim, to all abuse, rape & pillage,

She´s the fountain of all life, of the future, present & past,

Yet in the big plan of men, she´s forever considered the last,

She has no time for love.


She has heard of gentle caresses, the touches & the kiss,

But what she has never known, she can never really miss,

She doesn´t believe in kindly words, spoken in soft voice,

As a woman in her place, she has never heard of choice,

She has no time for love.


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