Cold or warm, she was unimaginative of what she could be
A little pity would have been her redemption
The cracks, the stench, the horror awaited
She was sold for a pair of shoes.
The darkness in her eyes was brighter than where she laid
A corrupt haven for innocent birds
Where they sang risquè melodies
For immoral gentlemen to forget their wives.
Her sharp sense of touch attracted keepers
The blemish in her eyes was no hurdle
She was favoured by her mistress
Loathed by the envious cohorts.
For those who were her own, gave her out
Those who hated, were disturbed by her light
Those who admired, emptied their pockets
And those who never met her, challenged her existence.
The blind harlot is a myth they say
No woman of good virtue wears an unclean linen
They leave it to the preacher woman in the streets to judge
She comes by every fortnight.
Picture by Nick Berardi Photography.