With a smile on her lips and pain rimmed eyes
A barely-there hips tired of walking miles
She used to be there everyday be it rain or sleet
As a maid by the day and a harlot roaming the night street.
Once she had a home, loving husband and sons
In a faraway village now razed by poverty and guns
A small patch of land her husband used to farm every year
Mounting debts and failing crops drove him to suicide out of despair!
Sons were called to avenge the death of their father
Hands used to sowing being trained to hold a gun rather
Two sons she lost in the battle for justice
Instead of her sons, she got back bullet ridden bodies!
She came to this city with her last remaining kid
For him she worked and also offered herself to every bid
Often she slept with only her shame as her cloak
But the morning brought hunger, a traitor, which continued to provoke.
Her masters were happy as she was a good maid
She was seen not heard and ever grateful for being paid
Quickly she would gulp down every morsel of the leftovers given
Even if it was stale she would eat as if hunger-driven.
She worked and worked ignoring much pain and strife
Hoping to save some money to go back to her old life
But the demon of poverty refuses to let her go
Greed of mankind delivered repeated blows.
She lost her home to make way for an upscale market
Her son she lost to an overseas job racket
Now old, frail and a beggar she is sleeping on the street
One dark night she came under the wheel of a drunk rich kid.
Yes, there were protest and candle-march with media coverage
Genuine remorse, automated lip-service or to establish emerging political image
This is a story of a stranger living in a strange town
The story is often heard but no one gives a fig deep down.
Today the kid is out of jail and the media has moved on
Before she was dying everyday and now she is finally gone
In this unfeeling world she never had a moment of ease
Now in her death, My Lord, please let her truly rest in peace.
© Shukla Banik
FB Post date Sept 17 2015
Poemish date March 25 2016
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