She watches them move past
their hurried pace, their worried face
some hanging on to buses
others clambering into rickshaws
the poor unhappy lot
their poor unhappy  living.

The sunlight brought a sparkle into her eyes
a naughty glint, a peace filled calm
what if she owned nothing but a blanket
what if she made the roadside her home
what if she knew no washing, no change of clothes
she is a contented soul, watching mad men rush by.

I heard of the kind soul who sought to help
picked her up, and was slapped in turn
amazing this, her temerity
in one who knew no speech
her gay abandon ways
the joy of watching the struggle, standing by.

Is she a jilted lover?
a deserted wife, an ill-treated widow?
taking a sharp turn, she looked into my eyes
the hint of laughter played by her sunburnt cheeks
finding the answer to my question
I scurried off.