Oh gullible girl, as they called out,
some old men in a quivering pitch-
Where is your father?
You pick flowers from the dust
unearthed and sing to folks
in your balmy voice, this basket
hanging in your feeble hands,
this floral case- does it hurt you?
You surface as the light sheens
and disappear by the dark obscure-
which part of these soils is mellow
enough to hold you in secret
The fair girl smiled and cried.
The poorest lot see me often for
I am one of them-
the folks you abandon and never
wish to join in feasts, nor grant
a smile in your rich facet streets,
the man and woman whose ill
broods you never wish to see,
I am such daughter.
*The sobs ache*
But my father deserts me.
His affirmation murders me inside-
You are not among us,
how ironic is my living that
I beseech my lords to take back
Oh poor girl, as they call out,
turn their backs, despising the
tale. No ears heard the silver songs
and no eyes embellished the beauty
peerless , none saw the daughter
She paves her away picking flowers,
singing to folks.