Satirically thousands of fingers point back to her,
With no worry she watches post-mortem of her character;
All splutter on the face of the Dirty Girl,
At the dark contour, they creep into those dens in masks
To lick the saliva from her face
To suck the last drop of her juice, insane!!
Maskers look at her slightly off at a tangent in the sun,
Implying–sophisticated feet don’t tread on the worms of dust!
Crosses inlay at her juxtaposed existence.
Next day she again stands at the door-
Rosy tint on her cheeks, rich red on her juicy lips
Hides the stories of past night,
And generates a new…
Perhaps she counts and measures each hour at the cost of each selling,
Mistakenly gets lost in it,
One day she gets lost from existence leaving no trace,
Leaving no memory…