Millions crammed together,

Roads, smog, dust, swirly cocktail,

Crescendo of epic noises,

Discordant harmonic orchestra,

Horns blaring, million metal clad machines,

Jostling turning scrambling,

Riders behind wheels,

Modern cowboys in boxes,

Dead in dark unending silent nights,

Heard thousand miles up from space.

Grand old road crossing,

Crossroads of old and new structures,

Resplendent in old glories and paints,

Little girl stands –

Face half covered, silk scarf highly held,

Lips clenched tightly,

Fending of the incessant cold.

Sheaf of ink stems held in one palm,

Girl selling pens – colors of rainbow,

Universe of conjured dreams,

Sits by roadside, drawing furiously,

Patterns flowing from ink, multiple

Stems flowing magically,

Images, color splashed on box top,

Only available canvas of child’s imagination.

She holds – singular note,

Her daily worth, collected and stored,

Like precious stones in a knotted skirt pocket.

She gently folds the rumpled note,

Earnings of sale of pens,

Color spent on hidden past images.

In Love of Home – her pavement,

Sand filled crossroad,

In a city of millions alone,

Dust smeared, caked innocence,

Age of wonderment laid bare,

With nakedness of tattered clothes,

In hazy, smog filled blue winter mornings,

She sits – a child street pen seller,

Coloring remaining tattered dreams.

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