Weary rough hands holding bunches of succulent stems
Soft ,fresh , brightly coloured flowers ,at one end She fervently beckons all passers by.
A screaming contrast to her faded ,crushed limping gown ,
Pallid face with poetry written between deep lines.
And pathos peeping from her ripened eyes
That unfolded tales of desertion and neglect .
The wafting scent of blossoms made me wonder
If her house ever scented of blossoms,
or if she even had a house.
Spending her nights in the shade of old warehouses
And her days under the scorching sun
Dragging her feet for miles stopping at red lights
Offering the most beautiful gift of nature,
To sate the demonic hunger of her belly
That pricked her day and night .
Maybe cursing her fate or thanking her stars ,
For the resilience her feeble body, showed so far.
I lunged forward stretching my hands,
Grabbing the whole lot from her,
Presumably relieving myself of a weighty guilt.
Shoving some crispy papers between her stifled fingers.
Looking down at her filled palm
a stream of gratitude rolled down her cheeks
Probably for mitigating her pain.
I watched her abashed and benumbed.
A gripping consternation crippling me.
Verily ,is this all that one could do
To water the withering hopes
Of a mother abandoned by destiny.