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Poem

I take her delicate hand in mine,  
With flowers and swirls, I seek to entwine.  
Pretty it’ll look, and smell even better—  
Henna on the hands of this girl of mine.

She selects a pattern from a sea of designs,  
Insisting I weave it with elegance and rhyme.  
“I’m no artist,” I say, “I’m just giving it a try.”  
“But Mumma,” she sighs, “I want the best design.”

So I splurge and style as I erase and trace,  
Adorning her hands with hard-earned grace.  
She smiles and squeals, "Oh Mumma, I love it!"  
Reassuring me, love has filled her heart’s space.

For artistry it is, and beauty it emanates
Embodying love & hope, and all the beautiful traits
Subtly connecting girls across distant lands—  
From India to Ukraine, from Palestine to States

Some sheltered in their mother’s warm embrace,  
Laughing and playing; their joys fill the space.
Some fleeing from demons from cage to cage,
In their harmless hands, collecting rivulets of tears

O daughters of all tribes, O sisters in grace,  
You stand united, no matter the color or trace.
Strong and resilient, yet tender and kind,  
Your worth transcends the stains you possess.

Not defined by the delicacy or strength of your build,  
Or whether you have no hands to cater with.  
It’s how willing you are to uplift another soul,  
With whatever you hold, to help the world heal

Dear Girl,  
Embrace you.
You're here for a purpose grander than you.  
There are fireflies flickering all around you,
Just like you—
A constellation anew

Light up the universe
With your scintilla!

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