In the quiet soil, a whispering plea, Bones laid bare beneath this tree. A wife, a mother, torn from grace, Her child unseen, her name erased. From Java's warmth, the red men came, To Alexander's cold bed, a life of shame. In Maluka's harem, where the forty sleep, Number thirty eight, dreamt of her village deep. Forgotten mother, with her longing pain, Under this tree, she shall remain. Yet in the roots, her story holds, In whispered winds, her sorrow sings.