how can she be a saint
it's just a usual day
it's just an ordinary life
it's just a worn out dress
how can she be of any help
with a child in her arms
shopping list in her head
beetroot stains on her palms
how can she be of any good
if she's busy cooking...
He, who was a perennial kid,
found joy in everything he did.
He, in whom youth was alive,
trusted his heart, not asking why.
He never judged any wrongs,
and raised his ash brows at know-it-alls.
And I remember, I knew him well.
He went through war, he survived hell!
Yet, when he rode his motorbike,
his smiley eyes cheered all alike,
and at the road bends he used to shout
his mighty roar:
“THE SUN IS OUT!!!”
© Copyright Beata Dagiel
I am getting old. I know my worth.
I know my purpose in this world.
My life is fulfilled, my eyes are ready to rest.
Yet I am still sowing, even if I don’t see the harvest.
Woman's work is never done!
In my blood I carry so many of them.
I can't even begin to fathom how many,
and how different each one of them had been.
You can see them in my gestures,
in my wince,
in my speech,
in my eyes,
in my bones,
in my attitudes...
I am them and they are me.
The good seeds they'd sown...