The shackled child, what brute commands,
who dares to cuff such little hands?
What bastards these, who understands,
what god allows such cruel demands?
Is she but just an object then,
a tool to use for wicked men?
Those fiends who reek of vile and phlegm,
the Devil’s own, the lot of them.
Of leeches fattened foul with greed,
who sucked with might to make her bleed.
By sup, by sup from rose to weed
till sullied dry and of no need.
From scourging days her nights pursue
a moment’s quiet, the sleepless few.
In rags and filth for crumbs to queue,
a child who but of hunger knew.
Mid rats and curs and swarming flies,
just skin on bone, a skull with eyes.
In heart and soul each day she dies,
of human form, unrecognized.
When clouded out the sun and moon,
when day and night portrayed in gloom.
She dragged unwanted from the womb
and dead before the bud could bloom.
With death the reaper’s beasts abound,
his wretched vultures gather round.
The rancid flesh in horror found,
where strewn a child on evil ground.
Who’ll weep for her, who’ll sing her hymn?
A child abused, what of this sin?
Without a name or place or kin;
if there’s a God, pray, she’s with Him.