Crimson:
A Song of Freedom
A dress of crimson silk she wore
Beneath the open sky
I held her tightly to my chest
And swung her way up high
Her ebony locks of hair draped
Into her soft brown eyes
Her mouth stitched into a smile
Never uttering a cry
Innocence she defined
With her hand in mine tight
We ran along through the hills
Beneath liquid moonlight
We lay on our mat atop the dusty floor
Sharing naan and camel’s milk
I snuggled her to my cheek
Touching the crimson silk
I kept her on mommy’s sari
While I worked the day through
Never knowing of the world
Of fear and how it is true
We shared both home country and name
Nepal—its mountains rolling and free
She was my doll and only two years old
I slightly older—her mother, but only
three
We were called Ashima
Meaning “limitless”
She wore the crimson silk
And I, in tattered dress
In our shanty, mommy was there to
protect
While father left at sunrise’s
kiss—dawn’s embrace
To gamble and to drink
Never hugging us goodbye and refusing to
kiss my face
The rice ran low and water dried
Beneath the eastern sun
Mommy’s tears fell down her dirty cheek
She called auntie and my adventure begun
Ashima in my arms
Held tightly to my chest
We traveled along the mountain’s curves
And into what was best
The liquid moonlight was soaked up
By the city lights
I fell asleep when I was given milk
Ashima held me
We both awoke dressed in crimson silk
Crimson: A Song
of Enslavement
Dresses of crimson silk we wore
Beneath the barred out sky
He held me tightly to his chest
And whispered to me lies
My ebony locks of hair draped
Into my soft brown eyes
My mouth wide open
Releasing screams and cries
Innocence she defined
While she watched me that first night
Being paid for with small bills
And unable to fight
We lay on the bed atop a concrete floor
Dreams of naan and camel’s milk
I snuggled her to my cheek
In my torn crimson silk
I keep her on the bed
While I work the day through
Knowing the world’s fear
Being beaten and bruised
We share both prison and name
India—its red lights and locked gate
She is my doll and only two years old
I slightly older—her mother, but only
eight
We are called Ashima
Meaning “limitless”
I wear crimson silk
And she, in a tattered dress
In our shanty, mommy sits alone
While father left at sunrise’s
kiss—dawn’s embrace
To gamble and to drink
Never hugging her goodbye and refusing
to kiss her face
The rice was overflowing and water never
dried
Beneath the eastern sun
Mommy’s tears fall down her dirty cheek
She recalls what she had done
I am Ashima in his arms
Held tightly to his chest
He traces along my body’s curves
And takes all that’s left
The liquid moonlight is soaked up
By the city lights
I fall asleep in moral filth
Ashima held me
We woke again enslaved in crimson silk
