Mad for us, Mother for him

Clothes so ragged, eyes so sullen,
Hollowed cheeks say it all,
Unkempt , the soiled hair;
Not for her, anyone to care.

Homeless, a roaming gypsy
A shame for all and to see.
Diseased and worse
The dogs life, of hers

Pass by do I, so do many;
A glance even, not from many.
Pity profuse and sympathy,
From me the man so busy.

The self and proclaimed decency;
The Righteous souls of the society.
Me and others, my fellow beings,
Not for her a place amongt us.

The pavement seat and the filth;
Hands groping, hunger or by habit ?
That tin pot and morsels of food,
Left overs from us, the kindly souls.

Smirk did my lips,
"Mad women", muttered with hiss.
"Burden" said the society,
Not for her any anxiety.

From that dark corner;
Behind the rubbish heap
Crawling and in smiles
The little one.

Rush to her, he did,
As fast as he could.
Sublime and unsupressed,
Joyous and elated.

Ragged but rich;
Filthy but loving.
Mad for us,
But mother for him.

[Bless them O'lord, where ever they are. For those two whom I saw really need that help]