𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

What fever scorched her soul in silent flame,                   
That even night withdrew in trembling awe?                  
She bore it not in tears, but strength and law,                 
A quiet grace that suffering could not tame.                  
Her breath, though labored, whispered not her shame,        
But rose like mist from fields the storm would claw,            
Her brow aglow as myths that old songs draw,                
A Chawngmawii reborn in deathless name.                  
The moon bends low to kiss her aching head,                 
Her eyes reflect the stars' eternal ache;                  
Yet even in her pain, no word was pled.                  
From out her night, the golden morning break,               
And light blooms forth from every wound she bled.  

     (𝑀𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒—𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒—𝒉𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑛 𝒉𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑎 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤.

     𝑆𝒉𝑒 𝒉𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝒉𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐷𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝒉𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑡𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑤𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘, 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐𝒉 𝒉𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝒉𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝒉𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒.

      𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑠𝒉 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙. 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒—𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒉𝑒𝑟.

     𝐼𝑓 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝒉𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠.

     𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛, 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦 𝑅𝐷.

𝑇𝒉𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢)