Khyati V.

Rome called her pure.  The words rang like bowls struck hollow.  My baby lifted into white.  Her feet left the dust I knew by heart.  Neighbours who had forever looked away, now smiled proud.  I bowed and called it gratitude.  Rome called her pure.  Purity fed us oil and grain.  Respect came without asking.  Things women like us never inherit, only borrow.  She walked untouched through men's streets.  I followed, careful not to reach.  Rome called her pure.  So she learned to be quiet. ...

To all those who wait across seas, I write to you tonight, Dreaming of long fields with cold frosted white.  How fare the farms, the orchard trees?  Do rivers flow quiet still with ease?  Can you hear the children laugh, the voices sing, And tell me, does winter's breath already sting?  I see you often in the night,  Your face half-hidden, turning to me, veiled in moonlight.  The kettle hums, the table's spread,  Your laughter ringing through my head.  The cows mooing down the lane,  Your...

In the memory of Diana, Princess of Wales, (01/7/1961- 31/08/1997) They called her the Princess like that could have ever made her safe....