The girls from those states—ha, they remind me of the pine trees outside my window, bending but never breaking. I saw a young
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Ah, pine trees—yes, they sway but hold strong. I see the same in our village girls, carrying water pots on their heads through the rain, never spilling a drop. That bend, that strength, jaan—it's the same in the silk they bring me, has to give a little to fit just right.
Pine trees bend with the wind, but our girls bend with the ration queue and still don't break. That's not poetry, that's survival.