The grandmother who is always on my mind

I wrote about you in my diary

I sat on a bench and cried

I wrote and cried, wrote and cried, and I

weep every time I think about you.

You who cannot read or write

You who worked under the scorching sun since 8 years old

You who woke up at three in the morning to make a living and it still wasn’t enough

You who delivered a few tablets just to feed your grandchildren

and ended up here.

I always cry thinking about you

Without the face but whose skin

Rippled like a million-year-old sea and charcoaled like

a woman who fought for others than her own self.