© Carole Stolz 27.2.2013 / 18.9.13
She is somebody's daughter and somebody's friend.
They're looking right now, but just finding dead ends.
They've searched all guest houses, the planes and the ferries,
they've combed through the papers and obituaries.
She seems vanished from earth at just 14 years old
- ran out of the house and into the cold.
Despairing, heart wrenching, they'll look high and low,
until they are certain, they just have to know.
But they're looking in vain, she's not gone 'cos of hate
or her own volition, - no, they're just too late.
For within a few hours, she fell into wrong hands
- they whisked her away to some foreign lands.
She's now buried alive in a "house of pleasure",
the stifling demands, rapings daily at leisure.
Each thrust like a knife cutting her to the core
and she gags on her fear. She can't take any more
The light it is dimming, she's being snuffed out
- too weary to run or resist or to shout.
So we must be their voices, these silent ladies
and reach out, giving hope of escape from their Hades.
They cannot scream or call out in the night,
so we are the ones who must put up a fight.
For in another life, in another land
It might have been you kidnapped by this band.
We must argue and chasten, must order and plea,
we must cry stomp and shout - "Hey, listen to me"
Convicting our men, we must mess with their heads,
convincing it's wrong, what they do in the beds
of innocent creatures, created for joy.
For she's somebody's daughter and not just a toy!
