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The thick, golden slumber of sorrow

Seeps into the delicate folds of her eyes,

Settling into a tattered heart of indigo blue.

As the dark night’s wind caresses her freckled face,

She is tucked into old sari turned quilts.

Morning waits patiently for her to pray fajr

With inaudible counting and swaying, her eyes quiver

She prays for those who are rising from asr,

Whose sun dips into the waters to greet their sister.

T. Jahan