The Little Flower Girl

The pavement remained covered with leaves,

A chill autumn breeze had stirred them up,

Making her hair flutter as rough waves

She clung to her sheepskin coat,

Trying hard, to remain warm against the cold.

I was happy and warm in my fur coat,

And watched her through the corner of my eye.

She walked towards me, and asked,

Her sweet voice, sore with cold, I heard.

“Would you like to buy some flowers, Sir?”

I scoffed her off and continued with my news,

She moved ahead, letting out a deep sigh.

The image of this frail figure, lingered my thoughts,

All day long, boring the same question on and on,

“Why had I not paid three shillings for the flowers?”

As twilight dawned, I walked back to my house, Happy

That the heating system had kept my house warm.

But then, the a bolt of lightning stuck my soul,

Wondering about the little flower girl, and her flowers.

“Why had I not paid three shillings for the flowers?”

Sleepless and haunted by her memory, I was up by sunrise,

Determined to wash away the guilt, in my heart.

And there I found her in the park, at the same place.

Only now, her lips were the color of the rainy sky,

And her lids shut tight, as in a deep slumber.

Her basket lay by her side, the flowers dried and lifeless.

The shed leaves covering the poverty her body,

Hair tangled and hands tight around her coat in prayer,

Her face so calm, like that of the angles in the sky.

“Why had I not paid three shillings for the flowers?”

She lay there in nature’s arms, like that of a painting,

Rid from the crutches of poverty and hardships of this world.

Now she plays in the land of fairies, in heaven above.

I look up to the skies with tears in my eyes,

“Why did I not paid three shillings for the flowers?”