For the worst was about to be witnessed,
and lacerating pain yet to be felt.
That afternoon in March,
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.