Harlots cry into the night, wandering through the streets, offering themselves. They are hungry and their stomach rumbles with the deafening sounds of the city, some cry and wail, needing to eat.
They peddle their wares and another owns their soul. The misery they endure leaves their hearts cold.
On this night many of the harlots feel they are cursed, others that did not survive will take their last ride, in the undertaker’s hearse.
©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree
So very powerfully empathetic
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Very interesting poem.
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London
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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I know Blake, but not this poem, thank you it is interesting how words mingle in and out of our lives. E.
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So beautifully written, but so sad. Thank you for sharing it.
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