As the sun sets, she sets up her shop in the street,
Where hunger for flesh traded with hunger for Need,
Bright clothes, Dark lips and a mole on the chin,
Hidden wound on her back with sharp scratch on her skin,
While awaiting, few erratic looks being shoot upon,
No place of worship at sight, Does her sins being counted on,
A glance of misty fog passes and lures her to hide,
But she know these civilised people will never feed her child,
She stares at fellow sellers awaiting in same street,
Same pain in their eyes.. Same reason in their needs,
Who is going to see through mask?
Who is going to ask our story?
Who am I anyway - Just a woman who sells her body