On her own, barefoot,
from the waterhole,
bucket balanced on her head
poor woman must make a fire
Little Mpho must be fed
His mirror reflection daughter
her joy and only reason to cope
for her only, she now prays,
lives, dreams, and hopes
She is the embodiment
of her heart’s own consolation
See, no longer does she wonder
what could have happened to him,
the slick dresser who stole
her heart back in the day
Having received no replies
over many moons,
to him she no longer writes
those letters to that city of lights and gold
for they since went, and like him
were swallowed whole
Behind her tear welling eyes
still aches the parable
of a fate unknown
a thorn in the wound
whence she bleeds, unbandaged
some days sting, worse than others,
inside
No longer does she wait at the rusted gate
anticipating his return
for she knows
if she ever sees his brown eyes again
it would be too soon