She watches the morning
from the same doorstep
every day.
The road remembers
the weight of her footsteps,
though it hasn't carried them
in a long time.
Her schoolbag
still hangs by the door,
its zipper half open,
holding pencils
worn down
by unfinished sentences.
She wonders
if knowledge disappears
when no one is allowed
to touch it.
If dreams
grow smaller
when they're kept
inside four walls.
Outside,
the wind moves freely,
lifting dust,
turning pages
of a newspaper
she will never read.
It enters the house
without permission,
as if to remind her
that freedom
was never meant
to belong to only half
the sky.
