I met your heroine today, on the roadside.
She's just as broken as you painted her.
The child still sells flowers for a living,
And still wears that soiled, tattered frock.
She skipped about those sour streets,
Begging every passerby to see her flowers.
Everyone felt sorry for her abused body.
I approached her and asked for a flower.
A smile spread across her dreary complexion.
'You're an artist, aren't you ?'
Her sad, weary eyes understood everything.
'I have met all sorts of artists.
They have been here to paint me, photograph me,
And some have even composed tragedies on me.'
I told her that they were all trying to help.
'It's not that. I just make a good subject.'
Her bruised hands lifted to me a rose,
'I prefer those who come for the flowers, instead of me'.
I took it, looked at her and asked hesitantly,
'May I write on you ?'.
She smiled yet again. That same haunting smile.
'For a change, will you write on the artists who sell me ?'