Little mother [juxtaprose]
As you rip out with your bare hands the hearts of stalks deep in a sugarcane field and screech from the sting of a thousand translucent thorns raked up by your palms, as you disembowel the dank earthen search of a bone severed from the spirit that would not be broken, as you stomp the clumps of sod with the inhuman strength your muscled have sucked out of your now hollow heart, you fail to hear the footsteps of the village maulvi. He has emerged from his mosque because your wails were louder than his call to the sundown prayer...