when crimson dirt rises high
from mounds of twigs and hay
beneath a canopy of clear sky
a village belle stirs her clay
O! allure of the falling veil
that reflects fire of her face
stoic hands endure this trial
while her toddler nearby plays
as glass bangles shine resolve
to ignite her fledgling dream
moist pieces of earth evolve
as part of some grand scheme
inspiring art from the flames
yet she remains without a name
