She Carries the Sky

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She walks with grace, a pot on her head,
Through dust and dawn, where the rivers have fled.
Each morning paints the eastern sky in fire,
As worn feet trace a path fueled by desire.
Her footsteps mark the rhythm of rain,
That never came — yet comes again, a ghost on thirsty ground,
A yearning whisper, a persistent sound.
The scent of dry earth rises with the sun,
A daily cycle, endlessly begun.

Beneath her feet, the earth remembers,
Stone-cut wells and ancient embers.
She treads on stories, etched in rock and time,
Of seasons generous, in their vibrant prime.
Tanks and steps, carved deep and wide,
Where kings once caught the monsoon's tide,
Reflecting skies, a silver, fleeting gleam,
Now dusty hollows, a half-forgotten dream.
The sun bakes hard, the air hangs hot and still,
But in her spirit, an unbroken will.

The clouds once bowed to temple spires,
To terraced hills and village choirs.
They heard the prayers, the songs of grateful plea,
And poured their bounty, wild and rich and free.
To rooftops sloped in sacred ways,
To save the sky for drier days,
Each tile a channel, every gutter true,
A covenant with water, fresh and new.
Now cracked clay thirsts, and whispers fill the breeze,
Of distant promise, carried on the trees.

But still she walks — in every land,
With copper pot or plastic can.
Her shoulders ache, a dull, familiar thrum,
Anticipating burdens yet to come.
The weight she bears is not just water —
It is history’s hope, and someone’s daughter.
A legacy of struggle, etched in bone,
A future nurtured, quietly sown.
Her eyes, deep-set, hold wisdom, calm and vast,
A bridge connecting future to the past.

At wells she waits, where shadows softly fall,
At springs she sings, a silent, humble call.
Of flooded fields and vanished springs, a lament light,
Whispered under stars, through the fading light.
Her hands remember, more than books,
The secret routes, the hidden nooks.
Each twist and turn, each rock, each ancient tree,
A sacred map of scarcity and plea.
She knows the pulse of earth, its deepest sighs,
Reflected in the blue of weary skies.

A bearer of life, a keeper of time,
She walks the edge of rhythm and rhyme.
Not by choice — but quiet command,
Where water means work, not wealth in hand.
Her days defined by journey, weight, and thirst,
A life where every drop is truly first.
No idle moments, no soft, easy grace,
Just steadfast purpose, etched upon her face.
Yet in her gait, a quiet dignity gleams,
A strength that anchors all her waking dreams.

Yet now the tanks rise once again,
To catch the gift of falling rain.
A whisper grows, a murmur, then a sound,
As ancient practices reclaim their ground.
And voices rise with tapping steel —
A woman builds what she once had to steal.
No longer just a carrier, but a guide,
With calloused hands, and newfound, steady stride.
The future shimmers, brighter than before,
As life's essential rhythm she restores.

She learns the pipes, she draws the maps,
She trains the youth, installs the taps.
Her voice rings clear, with knowledge hard-won,
Sharing the wisdom, 'til the work is done.
She lifts the burden from her spine,
And leaves the pot by the door — like a shrine.
No longer needed, yet revered and known,
A symbol of the seeds that she has sown.
A freedom found, a future now unfurled,
A testament to change, across the world.

So let us write not just with ink,
But with the rain she helped us drink.
The past she carried on her head,
Is the future flowing just ahead.
A vibrant current, clear and strong and deep,
The promises the earth will surely keep.
Her story woven into every stream,
A living legacy, a hopeful dream.
For in her journey, truth begins to gleam,
The power of one, a monumental theme.

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