Two women on the blazing road,
sweat blinding their journey.
Step falling in to weary step,
loads heavy as ore
upon cumbered backs,
sore, cracked feet,
scratched shoulders hunched,
miles pass in silence but for stark echoes of travail.
Finally, Youth speaks:
“Carry my burden this short while,
for gladly I shall carry yours.”
She withers under a sunken gaze
that is the reply.
“Grandmother, are you afraid
to taste my pain. Say you
that I should shrink from yours?”
With wizened smile the Elder sighs:
“Child, all our crosses are the same.”

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