A Ballad of the Veiled Woman

We drift through streets where shadows cling,

Melanin around our eyes glows in the soft sunlight’s ring.

Eyes pierce through veils, sharp as the wind,

Yet in our hearts, we are not thinned.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.

Their voices stir like whispers on the breeze,

Spinning tales with ease, aiming to tease.

Some shake their heads, some clutch their chests,

Blind to the calm that within us rests.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.

A child may linger, small hands at their side,

Melanin around our eyes, glowing deep and wide.

A stranger may stare, lost in our stride,

Some see only shadow, mystery, and veil,

Unaware of the courage we silently hail.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.

The sun may burn, the rain may fall,

Neither mock nor gaze can stall

The steady beat of hearts that know

A quiet strength the world cannot show.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.

Whispers drift along the dusty street,

Murmurs of judgment, of doubt, discreet.

We walk through scorn, through fear, through pain,

Yet each step reminds us we remain.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.

Night descends, our silhouettes blend,

Veiled and calm until the end.

The melanin around our eyes glows in lantern light,

A quiet dignity in the still of night.

We walk as strangers in a foreign land,

Called curtains, called trash bags by every hand.