Vagabond

An old woman with contorted spine,
I come across her often times.
Neath the Gulmohar tree in a shack she sit intermittently,
In the face of a mizzle or scorching sun regardless.
Her hair is untamable and silver
She sips on weeds through her tremulous fingers.
Her skin is saggy, and face so pallid with web of wrinkles.
Like sterile cloud she drifts around with a sack of rags, vagabond.
She is crabby, fretful when asked of Her domicile.
She sings a lonesome hush,till the moon grow pale
I ponder,if she ever had a brood?
A menage of her own,her consort or children?
If she had conjugal bliss?
A concatenation of questions floods my mind.
She hold a converse with travail, with an ill-lit fate.
But somewhere inside this old carcass I see a young girl still dwells,
But now and again her battered heart swells,
Bruised by abandonment, tormented for years,
She awaits the ultimate sleep.