Who sorts out scraps of sustenance, <br />Bending upon the hump of smelly trash, <br />And picks up the sucked eaten bones, <br />Stuffs them into spacious juty sack, <br />Hanging down upon her back, <br />Or sometimes drags behind toiling, <br />The load of life, out of breath? <br /> <br />Bare-footed, wearing smeared clothes, <br />Knotty hair, unwashed since birth, <br />Has baby kind three years old, <br />Resembling mother in gait and form, <br />Half dressed, the thumb in mouth, <br />Standing among the black crows, <br />Feeding upon the garbage scattered, <br />Along the roadside, she wondering looks, <br />At the running mindless blind beasts, <br />Speedily pass with the swishing sounds, <br />And across the road at high mansions, <br />Shining, painted glaring white, <br />Where from peep out sophisticated couples, <br />And children with blighted rosy faces, <br /> <br />The erect spectrum of pestilent radiance, <br />Provokes more in the stifled hearts, <br />Scornful pangs of the burning blotches, <br />The disdained despised daughter of Eve, <br />Forlorn in thoughts perhaps thinks, <br />That fate might have committed an error, <br />Placing her on the wrong side of the road.<br /><br />Muhammad Shanazar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-daughter-of-eve/
