The peasant lady bathes,
Rivulets of cool water washing away
The dust and grime
Of hard toil.
The white sun was unforgiving
The black earth, cracked and dry.
Like her palms covered in tiny scratches,
From the weeds she pulled with bare hands.
As the water runs,
Trickles through her open hair,
Makes it gleaming black again, like her bare back
She is soothed.
The dust is washed away and yet,
She draws more water from the well;
It is as if she is trying to wash away
A Thousand years of toil.