It was true, the whispers I heard from the royal dead? Was such our fate and tale to tell—to be lost, faded, and refurbished by the hand of death, sutured to be torn again like the garments of the peasant’s closet?
If by one man’s stomach a generation will trust a tomb with their peace and innocence and prize their pearls for a swine, of what better voice will my feeble tongue spill in defence of a future bright and lovely?
At age twelve, she—my great, great grandmother—married a fifty year old on the warp and woof of a collateral her dad made. Of what crime did she plead guilty for? She being a lady?
Now, I am in the other world; betrothed to the silence therein. My kin labelled my death a natural phenomenon with the consultation of the gods(?) they sole believe in forgetting I was twelve like my great great grandmother—my womb unmature; my womanhood just as round as the pinky finger.
The heavens be the protector of the girl-child I left during labour. What will become of her? Will she be made to follow suit? I don’t think she will be safe there with these greedy stomachs we call men. Lord, please send a help to guide her, for I have left an angel in the dark.
©TurksonQuills
TurksonQuills 