Poet 16: Lyre

Can’t stop to rub

Her aching eyes;

Her needle flies

Faster, go faster!

The next woman – move past her!

And only her needle

Strains, as it tries,

To pass the end,

To break its ties

To the binding thread,

But her soul is bound,

It’s muffled cries,

An undesirable sound

Fall on blind eyes,

And deaf, cold ears

Who say, faster, faster!

The next one, move past her!

And she tries, she tries,

To feed them, she tries

But the deaf ears care not

For children’s cries

And the cold ears tell her things,

Bind her in her thread, their lies


“Faster, faster!



It’s hot – so hot,

Behind these locked doors

Threatening fire,

And her fingers hurt so,

But they won’t let her leave

And the locked single window

Prevents any wind to relieve


She doesn’t stop,

Pricks her fingers


Racing heart and racing fingers

She pauses -

 Her quick eye catches, lingers…


A drop of blood,

From a little prick

Stains the cloth,

Makes her sick


And all her work…


She blanches as her stomach sours,

And she thinks of her hungry children…

She bites her lip, her wasted hours…


Sore, tired eyes and an aching head see it’s nearly ten,

But still she licks her frayed thread, and only starts again

The End

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