Emaciated, tiny frame: the slave Of any in the household. All her life Accurst. When barely nine years old, a wife And now, at twelve, a widow. She must shave Her head and break the bangles bridehood gave. Now all her days are toil, her nights are rife With hunger-pains. Useless her childish strife, Her tears and screams . . . her sanctum is the grave. Better for her the pyre and flaming breath Of pure release. While priestly superstition Says marriage binds the woman to one man Alive or dead; decrees a husband's death Her fault; no hope may ease her hard condition . . . . . . This somber widowed child of Hindustan. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW TO BE A POET (TO REMIND MYSELF) by WENDELL BERRY SOMEBODY LOVED ME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE PASSING OF THE EX-SLAVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LAKE BOATS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |