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Vera Kilgore Heilig: Her Poetry Lives (2017) H. Morris Williams, Marie Law Haire
Burden
My neighbors’ daughter sings a little song
That goes like this: “wah-ong, wah-ong, wah-ong”,
And rocks a tattered dolly all day long.
Her body now is almost fully grown,
But in that chanted lullaby alone
Her stunted womanhood is dimly shown.
Her parents both are simple patient folk.
I never heard it if they ever spoke
One word complaining of their heavy yoke.
Looking at them, I wonder if I could
Meet such a test. I am afraid I would
Break down and whimper “God cannot be good
Who causes trouble such as this to be.
Or if He did not cause it, where was he
When this great tribulation came to me?”.
I think Job’s boils could easier be borne.
Could any sorrow that he knew have torn
His heart, or caused him more to mourn
Than these who hear their daughters’ little song
That goes “wah-ong, wah-ong, wah-ong, wah-ong”
With minor variations all day long.
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