Burdened by thoughts she could not speak,
Deceived into silence by those who think her meek.
She draws with her lips and writes with her tongue,
Words she could not say, to paper she has sung.
Riddled by questions of the vast unknown,
She ponders, carving poetry into stone.
If rhymes were naught and verses were bare,
The poetess has no game, but to obliviously stare….
Beatriz Esmer 