I do not write about your love,
worn on your hands at my age.
On your six children just grow
on which you died,
and do not like to speak.
I would not hurt the lack of dreams,
you do not cut it,
ripped you .
a child guess your luck,
but still smiling,
still dream,
now you can play.
few years Crone strange to many,
to those who left,
those who died prematurely.
Women almost newlywed
hours you will sometimes desperate
because he does not return ...
hear your voice every week,
as a penalty of hope,
but what you do when you miss,
when they ask for it,
when you feel so alone,
that pain makes you doubt
and ask yourself the same questions?
Women of this village,
litter every day with the delicacy
of your bare feet silent
and resist, always resist
until dawn.
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