Magdalene laundry
We’re like playing one of those young women,
heading to the Magdalen Laundry
On this island, we have our own little islet
Where walls absorb pain like pores,
Where damp walls give birth to eczema.
Our story is somewhat more than what we are.
No, we’re not prisoners…
We can leave whenever we want,
But where to?
And who will accept us?
Like sinners, we hide our eyes in the ordinary.
We’re like playing one of those young women,
heading to the Magdalen Laundry.
But the laundries are no more…
Does God hear?!
We haven’t adorned ourselves with diadems
As they wore in that life
That they left, leaving the story unfinished.
Our sin is only that we’re not the same anymore,
And hardly anyone like us will repeat