With what my mind occupied until

You came back, retreated from the day

And shut yourself away from everyone

In your bed, no words said,

Your back still bloodied with what

Myriad of unfortunate children faced your

Mauling hand-

And that’s what you’d do;

_In the name of the country_, you say,

Or your superior says,

And I’d no chance in anything before

The moral compass your heart enclosed,

Ripped from its source with those same hands

That’s the pitfall of it all, is it not?

To be privileged enough only to feel shame

And not guilt or fault,

For the night to wallow in your stead,

For me to tend to your tensed and

Untrusting body and to

Pull your cover so that not even the beams

May see this reserved state in all its trueness

It’s who your grace will always be

Unless learned right and wrong

To turn against the only kind of life you know

And fed in turn forgiveness for the

Building blocks of a sanctuary;

In my dreams, that’s who you are-

Determined, unheeding to commands

To make right again what hatred you’ve spilled

Against will and acknowledge it with

The kindness I believe you do have

I know still that is it silly to just dream

In times of anguish, but what

Will a mere maiden be given power to do?

I’d love with all my soul to plunge

My hand into wherein the cancerous

Sickness lies, to destroy it, to motivate,

However this hand is gloved in the constraints

Of servicing- no matter how cruel the command,

There is understanding and there is the impossible.

To face you in the direction of the hoping mothers, I’d want,

But your mouth remains closed in

Fear of disobeying the commands of those in control,

And of betrayal to the homeland which

Raised you.