A cigarette lay burning

In a tin lid where she lay,

The smoke appeared to dance

As it met the morning rays.

A dirty coffee cup was silent

For there was no steam to rise,

It had sat there waiting patiently

since before the sun arrived.

One hand beneath a makeshift pillow

The other upon her face,

She lay there ever still

In this lost forgotten place.

The blanket she had swaddled in

Was dirty worn and old,

I say a prayer, and close her eyes

She is free now from the cold.

-Antony King


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