The Old Woman. Poem by Hannah York

The Old Woman.



There she lies
Half clothed in anger and terror
What is the justice of this world?

The sky smoulders in the bloodlust
Rolling clouds engulf her hatred.

And the voices she hears calling
Floating on a breeze of serenity

Up she looks her outstretched hand
Reaching to the sky
To her loved and lost

Her weathered skin brightens
Hope highlighting the childish glint of her eyes
lost in the deserted face

‘im going home'
She sighs with relief

And that one lost soul is welcomed into the arms of her loved and lost.

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