skirt hem swaying,
her frail hands open,
trailing along the ridges of
decrepit homes
topped with plastic sheets
caked in sludge.
The path she warily
trudges on is muddled
by a century's worth of
dirt and grime.
She passes through
a bustling crowd of
Animals and Humans;
the moos and shouts
signal nothing -
they are but a repetition
of countless days and nights.
When she returns
to her deteriorating home
at dusk, she looks to the sky.
She listens to the tune of her heart,
strumming, beating, with the
whispers of the stars -
mapped among the constellations
are her purest of dreams.
Carried by hope,
she flies with the
closing of her eyes.