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. . .
