Raped At The Time Of Drought

She walked like a ghost In the chilling darkness of winter; Singing to her herself an old lullaby Her mother had sung years before; She had thorns in her palms And afraid of squeezing her breasts To feed her child, a new born as small As a bird and without a valid name; The wolves have plundered Her chastity inside the dark shack, They positioned well to take her full One by one as if waiting in a file; They made festoons of her dress Like a wedding was going on; Under the limitless sky her sun is Lost somewhere near the horizon, Never to rise, never to lend its warmth. She is dead.