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She opens her eyes, bright and pure,

The mother cannot help, but be caught in their lure,

Gurgling and cooing sounds brimming with innocence,

The entire weight of the world cannot dim the joy brought by an infants’ countenance

She plays with the other children, carefree and jubilant,

Heedless under the mothers’ watchful gaze, ever attentive and vigilant,

Pigtails bouncing, eyes overflowing with unbridled mirth,

What worries can plague her when the fire still crackles merrily in her hearth?

She seethes in silent rage, tempest and ever so sensitive,

Gentle hands tenderly stroke her tresses, doting and warm,

The façade cracks, eyes finally succumbing to tears that shake her form,

Thin yet unyielding, those shoulders have finally perceived the pressure of youth

She hunches over in woe, grief-stricken and dolorous,

Grasping onto stiff, cold hands, the world now feels ominous,

Eyes full of unconditional love, now blank and ever so lifeless,

Despairing and tormented, she feels as Atlas must when he bore the weight of the world

She muses as she knits, pensive and thoughtful,

In front of her, the young ones’ shriek, exuberant and cheerful,

The sun is setting a beatific smile graces her wizened features,

Her shoulders sag, surrendering to eternal rest as dusk finally settles over.


About The Author

Arwa Aatique

Hey Everyone, I’m Arwa Aatique. A junior from ASAB. Yes, I’m a certified biology nerd. Let us move on from that part. I love all things fantasy and describing me as weird and sometimes a little too dramatic would be quite a correct assumption. Reading and writing as one would automatically assume, being part of the publications team and all, are two of my main hobbies along with the occasional baking and cooking, (now how proficient I am at the latter two will be kept a mystery for now). I can pretty quiet most of the time but get me started on my favorite book, show or fictional character, I am liable to become a crazed, passionate lunatic who WILL talk your ear off so be warned. I sometimes feel like I spend more time in my head then I do in the real world (whether the former is more endurable than the latter shall remain ambiguous, for reasons I would prefer not to get into). My mother would call me neurotic, I would like better the term “over thinker” (not that that makes it better). Or rather, I would refer to it as a tendency to pick at the nitty gritty details of every thought that flits through my mind so much that it resembles nothing more than a jumbled and half-baked motley of words (yes, my mind is a formidable region). I am quite an idiosyncratic individual, it would seem.