04-03-2025, 01:06 PM
In a land of dust and sun-scorched clay,
A village stood by a well each day.
The water was scant, the earth was bare,
Yet Lira lived with joy to spare.
She wove her baskets, swift and true,
Laughed with friends as breezes blew.
To her, this life was all she’d known,
No lack felt deep, no seed of moan.
A traveler came with golden thread,
His cart with jars of water spread.
He spoke of fountains, grand and wide,
Of rivers flowing, wealth untied.
The village stared, their eyes aglow,
But he refused their bowls to show.
“Your well’s too small, your ways too plain,”
He left them with his proud refrain.
That night by the well, Lira sat still,
Her heart now stirred with a sudden chill.
The words he spoke, “You lack, you lack,”
Turned joy to want, turned light to black.
The wind grew faint, her peace was torn,
A longing bloomed where none was born.
The villagers, too, took up the cry,
Their whispers sharp beneath the sky.
They pointed then at well and kin,
“Your fault,” they said, “our lack begins.”
One dusk, to Lira, harsh they spoke,
“Your hands are rough, your life a joke.
No fountains rise from what you weave,
You’re why we lack, why we grieve.”
Their words, once warm, now cold as stone,
Cast her out, left her alone.
With heavy heart, she wandered far,
Beyond the well, beneath a star.
A grove she found, a spring so small,
Its trickle sang a gentle call.
She drank its gift, so sweet, so clear,
And felt a whisper drawing near.
Not words, but strength, a joy to claim,
Her worth reborn in that soft flame.
Back she came, her spirit high,
A basket swung beneath the sky.
By the well, they judged once more,
“She’s content with less, a flaw we bore.”
Lira stood, her voice rang free,
“You point at lack, but what give ye?
My hands are mine, my joy I’ve won,
I lack no worth from anyone.
If lack you see, then turn inside,
Not blame to cast, but strength to find.
I’m human still, as you should be,
Not less for what your eyes don’t see.”
Some turned away, their grumbles loud,
But others paused, their heads unbowed.
A child drew near, “Why smile through scorn?”
“A spring I found where strength is born.
It’s in you, too—seek what’s your own,”
She said, and wove, her peace now grown.
They asked her how, she didn’t pour,
“Look to your heart, what lifts you more.”
Some scoffed and left, their lack held tight,
But some sat down by fading light.
One found her step, one tales to share,
Their springs arose in quiet air.
No fountains came, yet peace took hold,
A village warmed, no longer cold.
A traveler passed, his scorn the same,
“You lack,” he sneered, but Lira’s claim—
“We have our own,” with basket grand,
“Enough,” she said, her heart in hand.
M.A
A village stood by a well each day.
The water was scant, the earth was bare,
Yet Lira lived with joy to spare.
She wove her baskets, swift and true,
Laughed with friends as breezes blew.
To her, this life was all she’d known,
No lack felt deep, no seed of moan.
A traveler came with golden thread,
His cart with jars of water spread.
He spoke of fountains, grand and wide,
Of rivers flowing, wealth untied.
The village stared, their eyes aglow,
But he refused their bowls to show.
“Your well’s too small, your ways too plain,”
He left them with his proud refrain.
That night by the well, Lira sat still,
Her heart now stirred with a sudden chill.
The words he spoke, “You lack, you lack,”
Turned joy to want, turned light to black.
The wind grew faint, her peace was torn,
A longing bloomed where none was born.
The villagers, too, took up the cry,
Their whispers sharp beneath the sky.
They pointed then at well and kin,
“Your fault,” they said, “our lack begins.”
One dusk, to Lira, harsh they spoke,
“Your hands are rough, your life a joke.
No fountains rise from what you weave,
You’re why we lack, why we grieve.”
Their words, once warm, now cold as stone,
Cast her out, left her alone.
With heavy heart, she wandered far,
Beyond the well, beneath a star.
A grove she found, a spring so small,
Its trickle sang a gentle call.
She drank its gift, so sweet, so clear,
And felt a whisper drawing near.
Not words, but strength, a joy to claim,
Her worth reborn in that soft flame.
Back she came, her spirit high,
A basket swung beneath the sky.
By the well, they judged once more,
“She’s content with less, a flaw we bore.”
Lira stood, her voice rang free,
“You point at lack, but what give ye?
My hands are mine, my joy I’ve won,
I lack no worth from anyone.
If lack you see, then turn inside,
Not blame to cast, but strength to find.
I’m human still, as you should be,
Not less for what your eyes don’t see.”
Some turned away, their grumbles loud,
But others paused, their heads unbowed.
A child drew near, “Why smile through scorn?”
“A spring I found where strength is born.
It’s in you, too—seek what’s your own,”
She said, and wove, her peace now grown.
They asked her how, she didn’t pour,
“Look to your heart, what lifts you more.”
Some scoffed and left, their lack held tight,
But some sat down by fading light.
One found her step, one tales to share,
Their springs arose in quiet air.
No fountains came, yet peace took hold,
A village warmed, no longer cold.
A traveler passed, his scorn the same,
“You lack,” he sneered, but Lira’s claim—
“We have our own,” with basket grand,
“Enough,” she said, her heart in hand.
M.A
