What is in the glow of a moonless night?
Drops of sadness on shattered glass,
Blinding blankness in a clandestine plight
Or a pretty orphan girl, alas.
She sways along the roads, so bright
She wears the sunshine and the rain,
She cries when the street-dogs fight
She has no worries, no one to blame.
What is in the strand of a bald man's hair?
Stains of sin on a crumpled shirt,
Questions meandering like a murderer's dare
Or a pretty orphan girl's dirt.
She swoons between heels of fame,
She smiles through cigarette smoke,
She applauds this perfidious game,
She gets raped, a random bloke.
What is in the noise of a fly on a corpse?
Lumps of shame on a naked canvas,
Innocence lost with childlike remorse,
Or a pretty orphan girl, Cassandra's.
She listened to the dimming of the holy light,
She searched for angels in a forlorn place
She drank her tears to honour her might,
They orphaned too, her pretty face.