Spring has come
yet the budding flower
has wilted in dirt.
Stolen,
dragged into the ditch of dogs
her liberty is butchered beneath
the night that reeks of blood.
Moonlit through bars
she licks the wounds of sorrow
that pierce her heart.
‘I must live,
I must live to testify.’
Like a caged bird she hums softly into the dawn.
Pregnant with seeds of sin
the dying beauty is unfit to embrace life --
she can only hold dearly to its pitiless thread.
Seasons come and go.
The flower’s petals begin falling.
Others have already withered.
Writhing in fear
as we choke her with blind eyes
as the tales of brutality are lost in comfort
The forgotten sex slave
waits with her eyes open
until the day she blooms.
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