(This is a true story. I see her everyday coming in rickshaw in the evening. She waits in railway platform for her customers. And at night he returns back to her dilapated shanty a few kilometres away. She has a little daughter but has none and nothing.)
Sabina her name
Her man had written off her fortune
Leaving his last will for her to swallow her own days in nights
All alone wandering her long nights to sell her wares
Her only wares of bulging flesh and fading beuty to longing eyes
And sweating bloods in shadows of big men in dark disguise
Nobody knows whether her own man is dead or alive
In this world of filthy riches and sacred sermons
But this unkind world of hers has its way of impeaching her
Of her body of dignity falling flat over the lost sky in shame
And in despair her hungry body taking refuge in the arms of her big men.
Who sells her a morsel of rice?
Who sells sagging her breasts for her only daughter?
Her days are always in quest of nights for her big men
They all come hungry of slaughters' gaze
Of cardinal lusts and ordinal pleasure of wolves' prey
An easy prey as always it is in the whorehouse of freedom
She frees herself so dearly, unrepented and unsmattering
As if the nights are her long day closing its wings
Falling head over heel in eagles' love
Of unrequited sinner more sinned than the God's gospels
She cares not knowing the pristine flesh putrefying
And blood blowing cold over the hill of her ageing ages.
She sells herself her only freedom
She sells her one and only right to die anytime
She sells her all and everything not to shy anymore
She sells her body only ageing to die
For her only love to feed her breast in a lullaby
As she kisses her smiling crying herself on the sly.
And for her life goes on and on
In the whorehouse of freedom for an eternity
And the days diminishing in nights of darkness at noon
As she lives as long as her bulging flesh spells the slaughter's gaze
And her nights pay her a bowl of frothing rice
To feed her breast to her only love to pray for none in her lullaby.