The Unseen

For the worst was about to be witnessed,

and lacerating pain yet to be felt.

 

That afternoon in March,

a woman-

a woman so hugged by flies

struggled with her swollen hands,

to get whatever was left of her sari

to cover her shrunken breasts-

breasts, that cried the hunger dormant

in her concave stomach.

 

Her hand- a cruel hue of pink near the wounds-

infected by flies that hugged her closer-

bandaged her bruised hands.

 

She murmured words to herself-

sounds of pain,

words barely audible,

but sometimes the words carried-

the pain carried-

forcing those who passed by that pavement

to spare a look at her-

a look that quickly changed direction

for it was conscious of eyeing a naked woman. 

 

But everyone refused to see the tramp- bent in agony,

struggling with a flead piece of cloth,

her hair- a muddy mass of inflicted curls,

swaying ominously in the wind,

a gaunt frame- all that was a gift to her by society.