I weep with the tears of a muddy cheeked child,
nose running, knees scraped, fists pounding the air or crumpled against my stomach.
I cry on my knees for nothing, not knowing what war I fight, only knowing I must not surrender
or all will be lost.
No tragic dew-kissed eyelashes, no hair caught like a banner in the wind,
the only poetic taste in my tears is the silence of the earth around me,
the unchangeable straw struggling against tree roots and thistles,
unconcerned at hoarse mumbling and muffled howls.
I am not a suffering goddess,
I am a scrabbling beggar.
Take my hands, beggars and children, muddy fingers clutching at muddy fingers,
we can weep together, unbeautiful and unbound.