Green eyes wide with wonder, she has no fears:

     Root of gold, swelling gold bulbs, a gold shoot

Blossom and shrink in the bewilderment

Of doomed innocence. She knows not the loot,

     The trophy in triumphant merriment

Borne away from her treacherous home-land

     Is to be herself, when the feast is done.

She touches turnips turned by the hand

Of Midas, those lies unfit to feed one

     Crumb to her heart, and sees her mother’s tears

Fall. On her mother’s face a fey smile trips

     Between the realms of the living and dead.

Over her shoulders cascade gold turnips

     Spread upon soil of luxuriant red;

And in her throat bloom screams that no one hears.

Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Zin Daily, Litbreak, Broadkill, Rising Phoenix, Big City Lit, Constellate, Harpy Hybrid, and a number of other literary magazines.

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