Her hollow eyes stare at the barren wasteland before her,
eyebrows furrowed in despair,
wearing a hopelessly stained shirt,
stained with the grime of misfortune and sweat.
Her two young boys turn their heads from the camera in shame,
afraid to stare into their empty future.
Dusty brown hair, just as frazzled as her mind
nowhere to go, no one to go to.
A husband in the fields all day,
her hand stays glued to her lip,
as if her hand was the only thing strong enough to support her weak head.
Her hand pulls at her skin,
wishing it was just a mask, which she could pull off and become someone else.
The crevices in her face just deepen;
the wells under her eyes fill with hopeless tears,
which turn into an ocean
with waves that just roll on with time.