The Ragpicker

Her disheveled hair and aberrant gaze
of hazel eyes set in mystic maze,
lurking lunacy we have bred
and of justice much delayed.
No Marxist, secular or human move
was born to leave her off the loop,
So how was it , she on her own
ascended miseries throne?
Queen and maker of her fate
full of despair, grime and sweat.
The fabric torn that she dons
has since long withdrawn
from the despicable dignity
of man to woman and remorse to pity.

The sullen bag on her back
full of thorns and shards are packed.
She is the Santa of her own
bringing gifts of value unknown
to her siblings waiting till dusk
for a morsel or a stale rusk.

And if she can at all muster
this and that littered there after
Sell it for a paltry sum
to buy her dreams, grub and glum.

When hunger churns her earthen bones,
will her muffled wish condone?
all such souls smug and cosy
lost in dreams and comforts rosy?
She will wake up to see
The pavements humming like a bee,
clang goes the coin in her begging bowl
given in alms by sinister souls.
So sinister of me to watch and write
for I see darkness and see no light.
Woe be to me and woe be to all,
woe be to God of all things small.