My possession of fabrics and materials consists of this woven skirt I'm donning, it's a faded burgundy that matches our floor in the stoney house we call home.

Your raggedy khameez speaks more voice than you do jaan.
You call it your heirloom, passed down from your mother's husband.

From spring to spring, we're in the clutches of poverty.
I see a different life for us, or do I dream it jaan?
A life full of chauffeurs and butlers, maids and a cook.
A stretched expensive car for you and a similar one for I.
Bungalows in our names and respect enforced into our bloodline.

The river current is quickening, I have to go fetch water now. My fantasy has to wait for a later time.

The bucket creaks every time I hold it in my calloused hands my heart but you're much in a dire situation than I'll ever be.

The greed for a lavish life fuels my anger and I blame and blame. I look over at you, with your young face that resembles an old man's now. I don't blame you or await from you loved one. I promise I'll try to give us that life, if not I'll live ours content....