Poetry Talk

New post from poetessaura

Child Labour

Child Labour

The one who got a chance to get out of the ghettos,

The one who was instructed to always be on her toes,

Was, insouciantly, lurking on the lush, virescent Meadows,

only to loose control over her will; being childish and playing with Shadows.

Spirits don't cast them: she was aware of the fact.

Thinking of a peaceful departure, she kept her believe intact.

Her aesthetic writing was shouting; the signature on the pact.

She was exquisite than her handwriting; her ideas were abstract.

She was exploited for years, but what to extract?

She was a victim of inhumane treatment, to be exact!

She moved out of the bushes only to see an angel coming on land.

With sudden blaze she hung aloft, holding some clothes in her hand.

Soon the little girl was dressed beautifully in that sleek, sooty grey gown.

The angel vanished, leaving behind, a weeny, royal crown.

A white collar along with a black band went round his waist.

She decided to admire her first, not to make haste.

She danced on the green grass and smelled the petrichor.

She felt every inch of the life that she longed for.

Later, she paid heed to the signary,

which read: This is your chance to get your soul free.

She agreed to it and her hairs become straight from frizzy.

She dosed off while she felt somewhat a little bit dizzy.

Alas! This world has again made a child suffer.

By heartlessly creating a child labour!

But the nature was happy for her, happy was the heavenly spirit.

As through all the vision she enjoyed her part that she didn't inherit.