Poem; Shamina.

I remember so well,
The women in the next bed,
She said, nothing.
We were in hospital together,
And the weather was wet.
Wet as the tears pouring
Down her face, that I
Tottered round and sat down,
Beside her. "What is your name?"
I asked, admiring her beauty,
Long dark hair, brown skin,
And eyes I kept wanting to
Look in.
"Shamina, and you would not
 Wish to be in my shoes."
Her voice was soft and gentle,
As she explained, "My husband
Beat me up, I'm in here again."
I struggled to find the right words,
Did she know there was safe houses,
Where she could go?
"I can't," she said, "He'd find me
And I would be dead."
She went on, "He is a control
Freak, you know, and I am not
Allowed to go anywhere," I
Could hear her despair. And I
Thought how lucky I am,
To have had such a good man.
I could not forget her cries
Of pain, and so, when I went home
Again, I wrote a book about her,
Title, 'Shamina, walk a mile in my shoes.'
Yet she could have walked away,
And I wonder to this day,
What happened to her?

Augustine Nash.