Pitiful Legacy Poem by Hannatu Pqrs

My! Does my back throb!
My limbs are numb, begging me to drop
The heavy bucket of water with me

I have cooked my meal;
Done the dishes, scrubbed the floor;
Left undone no other chore

I have fed the livestock and my pets
And even though it's rainy, there's no rest:
I have also watered the garden

I've drawn as many buckets of water
From the well, as my age
And I am seventy and eight!

And to think that I was a house maid
For much of my youth, to be paid
Money with which I took care of me, and others

Now my son is at the frontline, defending his
Country. A country at war with another
Constantly, for one flimsy reason or other

Believe me, People! I am frail and weak;
My hair, graying; my bones creak
As I move! Every single day, I'm aging

In case you thought, my son is coming home soon
But, wait a minute, I see two military messengers
Coming. The sight of those two gives me the jitters

Ah, I recognize that familiar masked expression
Almost the same as informed me, without compassion,
Of my husband's death, and then my other sons

They needn't say a word: the message is clear
With them will be a note that will say
The country is sorry to have spoiled my day

And there goes my last hope and peace
Yes, my very last! My disappointment is this:
I'm right back where I started: alone!