Poetry: The washerwoman’s prayer.

Look at her hands,
Raw, knobbly and calloused
Look at her face
Like a bean seed soaked in brine
For countless years, she has toiled
To wash her Master’s clothes
Spiked by a Lord’s luxuried
In frost-freckled mornings
In sun-scorched afternoons.
She had drifted murmurless.
One day she fell and fainted
With weariness.
Cushing a gibberish.
Good Lord! Dear Lord! She shouted
Why am I so tormented?
How long have I lamented?
Tell me Lord, tell me O Lord.
My child! Dear Child, she heard
Suffer for those who swim in a bowl of pink gin
Thank you Lord, Thank you Lord.
Never again will I ask
Why I must carry this task.
Oswald Mtshali

Published by anayoandersonsblog.com

Be Human, kind, smart, polite, smile always Hard work and honesty. I love God.

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