Ragpicker's Rhyme
Her tender hands, daubed in the muck of labour,
She forges herself with an indestructible will power.
The buxom tree she leans on for her bony body to rest,
Inspires her for her forthcoming quest,
Along the heap of modern-day waste.
In its sturdy and verdant shoulders, she finds her story
Of everyday efforts and unsung glory.
“What could lie in the wombs of the debris,” she ponders
Even as her eyes glisten and her fingers over the maze wander.
Valueless they may be to her peers
Born in palatial towers
To her they are but a box of tattered treasures.
Lo! the crushed plastic bottles, cylindrical containers, the scrap heaps,
They all come to her with a hope for tomorrow
With their help she shall embrace mirth and shed her sorrows.
Her tender hands, daubed in the muck of labour,
She forges herself with an indestructible will power.
The buxom tree she leans on for her bony body to rest,
Inspires her for her forthcoming quest,
Along the heap of modern-day waste.
In its sturdy and verdant shoulders, she finds her story
Of everyday efforts and unsung glory.
“What could lie in the wombs of the debris,” she ponders
Even as her eyes glisten and her fingers over the maze wander.
Valueless they may be to her peers
Born in palatial towers
To her they are but a box of tattered treasures.
Lo! the crushed plastic bottles, cylindrical containers, the scrap heaps,
They all come to her with a hope for tomorrow
With their help she shall embrace mirth and shed her sorrows.
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