Her skin is a peach and light and delectable
The bed is positioned far below
The man that stands in the shadows
Bends to the youth
He caresses the youth
His hands are soldiers that invaded her country
Her home, her property burned by the torch
Her eyes are filled with fear
And his with dictatorship

To the holes in her socks
To the mats in her hair
To the grease in her pores
To the dirt in her nails
You don’t know her story nor the stress she may wear
Nor her laughter nor smile and silent whisper
For all you see is a  passing figure
For you to laugh at and to snort and snicker
So walk to a door that is locked shut
and quietly stare to see if she gives a flying ****