The remaining vestiges of kohl
She wipes away
Tracks stained dark,
Etched into her skin
Sooty and grey.

You can read stories
Tall tales of hopes and desire
Wants and fears and past and future,
In that face
In those tears.

She wipes away the kohl
And it stains her hands
Black against mellow gold,
Burnt sienna
Blood red.

Her hands speak of ethics
And a history marked into
Each line and each depression,
Her palms rough
Her fingers torn.

She looks up and her eyes
Are on fire
Burning with the flames of
A thousand godesseses
A thousand stars
A thousand skies.

Not a word,
Not a word,
Not a word.

This world is hers and hers alone.