“They say the tree never bothers the bees
Growing slowly, cradles them carefully
It never asks for any kind of sympathy
For holding ten thousand lives at its mercy”

I’ve never felt so small, the scripture always tries
To make me feel less strong and unsure of my life
I want to see the sun just to know what it’s like
To glance above my head and have it hurt, so
The daughter of evening, now knows the meaning
Of fighting against the current, pulled by others
Led with steel, we are real, now.

The false security of walls lined with stories
And monks who preach control, our sacred role
Our gifted souls - Enough literature
I want to see the Earth
From the outside, not the inside.

Her favourite book wasn’t a story
With words, it had charcoal drawings
She kept it hidden under her shelf
When the priest held elder meetings
Pages turned, forever dreaming
One day, to hold a seashell
Just to feel - we are real, now.