she sits, a jewel in fire
heraqua eyes obscured by grease
in filth, no one's desire
with fears that will not cease.
Alone, on beds of tattered cloth,
She sleeps away her nights.
The seats of grime, alive with moths
that leave at thefirst light.
She is the weak, the wary,
The child on the street
The one whose youth and merry
istrampled byTime's feet.
She was the bright eyed bell.
The Hope, the Strength, the Life
Now she lives in hell.
The Pain, the Loss, the Strife.