She came back
with silence in her throat.
No chains now,
only soft breezes
threading her hair.
She does not speak
of the place she left,
but plants things
that grow
deep roots.
Freedom
is not loud,
but it's hers.
--
Part 2 of a series
Part 1 is here: https://beckypoems.blogspot.com/2025/02/trafficked.html
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