A self-inflicted murder

She walks the name-less streets, amidst the face-less strangers;
Even if they did have names or faces, it really dint matter.
She speaks the language that will never be understood.
Being understood is of no good either.

She stares deep into the wilderness , which is all within her;
Even it were otherwise , she does not know where to go.
Her stead-fast walk looks impressive ,
despite her tattered clothes.
But looks can be very deceptive,
the truth remains: She has no place to go.

I made her that way, haggard, torn and numb.
I stole her of her joyful smiles and
marred the beauty she was meant to be.
She is now many a times stoned,
but she gives a smile so dumb.
Pity ...her cradle is her coffin.

She was given unto the hands of a stranger to her heart.
It was I who did it.
What hurts her most is not the stones nor the stranger,
but the fact that she is abandoned to eternity.
And the doer of the deed is abandoned as much.
Wounds heal, pain fades ...scars remain.