She

Born wild

Born different

Born differently

Born to prayers

Born into chaos

Born from the gods

Born close to ghosts

Born weird

Born confused

Born old

Growing young

One could tell

Some could tell

She was different

She was not like the rest

Born strong

Born wrong

Like a song

Played backwards.

She lived.

She was curious

She was surprised

She talked to the trees

And the trees talked back

She asked lots of questions

Of the butterfly and the earthworm

And sometimes the dragonfly

They didn't mind, often

She wandered

Unafraid

To the boundaries of the garden compound wall

Beyond which was the world

That gave her strange glances

Intrigue and sometimes fear writ large in their eyes

That was when she ventured and explored

beyond thin boundaries of her own mind

She knew she was crazy in a way

And she though it was delicious

Born with eyes open

Born too clever - Born too dump

Born with words tumbling incoherently

As she tried to swallow the world with her dry tongue

It hurt.

She grew

What else could she do?

She was like the wild weeds

She was looking for more seeds

She felt the feelings

That others discarded

She made her garden of weeds

She felt the wetness of rain

And the weight of each drop differently

She could see the soft grey cloud melting

Finally letting go

Reminding her of her own grief

Thick grey full

She felt the agony of the mosquitoes

When the black smoke-gun guys came and killed them

She suffocated

She felt the struggles and rejoiced

As the little seed broke into a two leave clover

She felt born again..and again ..and again.

And she died again ..and again and again.

She cried at dawn

When everything was ruined and torn

She was ill

She was still

As the world and the sufferings came gushing in.

She wept and she swept

Under the bed under the carpets

Where people hid their fears, disappointments an  shame

Some had her name.

Some regrets were kept wrapped in pink shiny paper

as Christmas gifts – a poor excuse for the absence

She had tripped many times

That is when she started changing

Closing up

Hardening

Pretending

Trying to fit

The sky frowned

The caterpillar stopped his mindless eating to look up

The earth sighed

And maybe died

A little

Like her

She felt she had a task

She had to wear a mask

That was the ask

Of the world

She thought.

As the world ‘conformity’ sought

She did. Her way was rebellion

That was the mask

Born first

You learn fast

Burn fast

Get empty and hardened like a cast

Many will be created in this mould

The mould, will remain empty

She has been left at the altar

She has been bruised by the pain

She has been touched without permission

She has been judged without trial

And yet - yet ... She will grow

She will show

She will march into the fire

She will stand in the piercing rain and sometimes be the holding cloud

She will perch on the tops of trees and balance

She will tumble in the rivers and sometimes change its course

She will ride the tornado and sometimes become it.

She will lay down on the soft earth and let the worms breathe in and out

She will.
Because that is what she is made of

The Earth

The Fire

The Water

The Air

She is the Space

She is the face

She is.

And there is no excuse.