• She sits, a jewel in fire
    Her aqua eyes obscured by grease
    In filth, no ones 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 the first light.

    She is the weak, the weary
    The child on the street.
    The one whose youth and merry
    is trampled by Times feet.

    She was the bright eyed bell.
    The Hope, the Strength, the Life
    Now she lives in hell.
    The Pain, the Loss, the Strife.