This is a cold land,
and most of it is burning.
the air freezes still water,
and the bomb shells
open them up.

I have calloused hands,
and dance to desperate crowds.
They aren't picky with women,
but I know that our bodies
aren't filling out.

I found differences with these clouds,
and those over the mountain.
They aren't full of water,
nor do they drop drops
upon the empty gardens.

In my hopes and aspirations,
I find remorse and lament.
I'm not bowing after sets,
and I'm not smiling
during performances.

Men are in the clubs and scenes,
and they know where we've been.
The likelyhood isn't likely,
but I believe we are beautiful
even while they are at war.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!