Like a seed that's sprouting
insignificant, little green hands
from deep down my womb
Holding on to a feeble beam of light
from a window, too small, too far above
the sound of my prayer tries to reach out
seeking God somewhere, out there.
And bouncing off
the merciless walls of skin
Its echo sounding like a twang of a bow,
in the hands of a gallant warrior
his arrow just missed
At least, the echoes are here
till the walls last....
What happens to the sound of prayer
when the walls of skin are shattered