Floodwater falls to the ground,
Their source-a pair of glassy pupils;
Head buried low, is wrapped in a clumsily tied scarf,
The owner-a haggard hag sits on,
A tattered bag full of nothing but,
Bloody-stained clothes!
Haunted by the decaying corpse,
Reminiscences of the dagga clotted with blood;
The sight-now a tourist attraction for flies,
Not just any ordinary but the big Gurus,
The choking smells of rot diffuse from the,
Bloody-stained clothes!
Now conscious,tastes the last of freedom,
Her fate-eternal life behind iron cells;
At least its better than being a punching bag,
Who can blame her after being one for centuries?
Immaculately she turns herself in with evidence of,
Bloody-stained clothes!
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