The Youngest Bride
Drowning in the depths
Of a never-ending sorrow,
Dreaming of no wishes,
No hopes for tomorrow.
Captive in fate’s prison,
With no luck to borrow.
A mother praying silently,
Crying in a dingy corner,
While making her daughter
A white veil to adorn her,
Feeling helpless, hating herself
For being a useless mourner.
“Only nine! God! She’s too young!
Have mercy on her and me.
At least let the little child of mine
Break free from this fate and flee.
I should be the one protecting her,
But to whom could I ever plea?”
Her paper boat of resolve
Crumpled by merciless tides.
Her unwanted daughter was about
To become the youngest of brides.
The woman herself couldn’t forget
The pain that still churned her insides.
Crying and praying ceaselessly,
No trace of sleep till dawn.
She had to wake her tiny girl,
As helpless as a fawn.
The white gown of a black destiny
Turned her into a wingless swan.
Carefree, she placed her small hand
In her mother’s sweating palm,
Too happy, playing house,
Yet trying her best to stay calm.
Her dad finally looked at her,
Calling her by her name—Ahlam.
Her mom seemed unable to breathe,
Strangled by ropes of thought,
Recalling her own wedding night,
When she’d screamed and fought.
She felt her faith slipping away
From the miracles she’d long sought.
Upon seeing the old man
Waiting to be her child’s groom,
Her vision turned blood-blurred,
She could no longer see the room.
She didn’t want to kill anyone,
But couldn’t bear her baby’s doom.
Her hand tightened around the knife,
Hidden beneath her long dress,
Her blood not even running cold,
But frozen solid with stress.
Even at the price of her own life,
She would free her child—nevertheless.