The Porter's Naivete

From dusk to dawn across the fawn,
The life for her is known unrest.
Her burden, a pan, it fetes her head,
A mass of stuff from women impressed.
She follows behind with steps detailed-
Her eyes a scorn of what is fond.
A line of sweat trails down her face,
And wets her lips of dry and naught.
She wipes her brow, the back of he palm;
Her palm, a coarse unravelled brawn.
Inside of her the little one kicks,
A sudden chill runs down her spine.
For what she fears and feels bereaved,
What life to give the one conceived?

Today is what was not ago,
A life impressed of naught for long.
A life back home, her mind recalls,
Devoid of aim or gain of fame.

Back home the hope is fog and mist,
Pallid and stale and told untold.
Back home the life it bores and breeds,
The wish of one to stall the fail.
And hearts and minds of those who wait,
Cannot be made to starve the want.
For what is life without a prize-
Without a hope of looking right?
What tale is told of mundane lifes-
If not the tale of scorched-out files?
The thought weighs down upon the minds,
Whose lifes they wish to make amends.
And when the time for flight is right,
The space twixt life and land is vast.

The grass looks green on the other side,
Not till you find no joy nor pride.
The Earth goes round in endless bounds,
Until whose hope defeat surrounds.

The South, she thought she found back then,
A haven for all of those from North.
A place incessant with sights and sounds,
Where dreams come true and hopes abound.
The streets amassed with cars not carts,
Of various kinds her lips did part.
The buildings rose high into the sky,
So beautiful, God, it made her cry.
The South, the city, that bore the names,
Of big-talk towns and men of fame.
And so she prayed her hope, this time
To stay in wait for a bright new way.
For then indeed her heart looked forth,
To making her gains and heading back North.

But now she fears the city is trouble,
Enough to make a young girl stumble.
Her unborn one has burst her bubble,
The walls around begin to crumble.