The Yellowed Fair – Manaswita Ghosh

Hustle, bustle, laughter and joy,

A cheery smile conquers every sad tune’s ploy,

Shops and rides, sweets and flowers,

Merry souls drenched in the lively shower,

 

A little girl in a soiled white frock,

An off-white ribbon tied onto her locks,

A basket full of pastel yellow roses in her hand,

In a lonely lost corner, she stands,

 

Unaware of the smiles, she has a rusty grim life,

Her eyes reflect an invisible burden, her plight,

She is just eleven, but looks older then the lot,

Her lips have a stiffness, her eyes tell an unhappy plot,

 

She asks just one question to each passer’s by,

“would you like a flower, sir?” her lips frame,

No one heeds her, she looks down to her feet,

But again she tries, accepting no defeat,

 

I walk up to her, across the cheery street,

“What are you doing here all alone, kid?”

“my parents don’t live in this land, said she,

I have a baby sister now, no one else with me.”

 

“Where do they live?”, ask I,

She looked up, at the skies,

I handed her a hundred bucks, for the yellow bloom,

She held out the change, “I don’t give pity a room.”

 

She smiled at me, and waved goodbye,

Lost in the crowd, I couldn’t find her thereby,

I walked home alone that night,

Thinking of her all the while,

 

She was a tiny innocent soul,

Lost in destiny’s ever-winding caracole,

I look up at the heavens, and close my eyes,

Dear god, keep that little angel safe,

wherever she flies. . .

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