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Under the scorching sun of June,
She sold flowers at the light.
A young girl of twelve or eleven
held dahlias red carmine
Door to door, car to car, she sold,
those flowers of delight.
They were one,
the flowers, and she,
they both dried in the sun,
with no sign of life or shower,
of affection or care or hope.
And their shades will soon fade,
in the sun, with the pain,
with no sign of bloom or rain.
Poetry: The Workers' Song.
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