She raised her palms for all the world to see -
True scars invisible - they remained inside.
Wearing victim glasses and martyr badge proudly,
Chanting into the incense...
A hundred candles burning deep into the night.
One God or another would give her priority -
Above war, hunger, strife, poverty...
Before life and death, she would be recognized
Over all other victims!
All she ever heard composed her whole life -
Simple selection from what she heard.
Borrowing eyes to see and ears to hear,
Only her tongue was her own
Identical tongue used to curse an unanswering God -
That one who was deaf, dumb and blind
He owed his very existence to her,
Yet he did not bless her.
She lit another candle and danced another dance.
Poor little sad and angry girl.
Confusion was her inheritence - and her legacy.
Martyrdom fit her just like a glove.
She talked to the God with bitter tongue,
Her being totally soured.
But it wasn't her fault at all - It was God's.