Mohammed Abdul Latif
The Poor Woman's Hunger
She dragged the paraphernalia by the weight of their locks,
with frozen fingers, with blue veins climbing upon fair skin.
Her pale eyes looked emptily towards the sky's canopy,
Her forehead wore wrinkles of age, so did her cheeks and chin.
In winter, by the stool she whispered to the stove,
All your fire has not quelled the hunger and it's pangs,
Your coal that has greyed upon the youth of fire now,
can no longer bear the pain, the sting and the fangs.