For dreaming is for everyone


Her browning black tousled hair;

Fluttered hesitantly with the evening wind.

Hands smeared with unruly grime

And eyes that sang with a chime;

She bothered a little

About her clothes tattered;

And much too little of her

Shoes – awfully battered.

By her dirt-packed sack she stood

Weary and stumbling upon

The surreal chasms

Of her zillion reveries;

She knew that it would be a hard journey;

But she would only make it;

For who said rag pickers aren’t humans?

They love, live and dream just like the way you do and me.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Grace
    Nov 25, 2014 @ 07:35:07

    A beautiful poignant poem. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person


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