She lies there,
a sordid figure,
victimised by a feraenaturae beast.
Grief and pain burgeoning in her skened heart,
puddles of mud salted
by a thousand drops of tears.
what becomes of her?
who will wipe her tears?
Me?
You?
somebody?
People pass by,
showing pity
or disgust,
some even burlesqueing.
They see her ripped clothes,
Nobody sees her soul ripped over and over again.
what becomes of her bleeding heart?
who will wipe her tears?
Me?
You?
Somebody?
They talk in whispers,
put up questions-
"who'll marry her?"
"will she ever become a bride?"
"tch! what a misfortune to strike."
There are no caring hands to soothe her pain,
no patient ears to hear her silent screams,
screams which erupt in her heart and bursts within.
what becomes of her shattered dreams?
who will wipe her tears?
Me?
You?
somebody?
The puddles of mud have dried.
So have the tears.
she lies there still
that sordid figure
still her crushed soul is crying,
from the leprous gravings of the past,
still an aura of futility engulfs her.
what becomes of her scalded spirit?
who will wipe her tears?
Not me,
Not you,
Nobody.
