In streets of dust and fading light,
Where shadows dance and darkness takes flight,
A small figure sits, a silent plea,
At the corner of a world that's lost its glee.

Her basket's empty, a symbol of her soul,
A vessel bare, where love and hope should unfold,
Yet she begs not for coins or scraps to eat,
But for recognition, a glance, a nod, a treat.

The oppressors pass, with eyes cast down,
Taking from her basket, without a sound,
Their superiority, a cloak they wear with pride,
Leaving emptiness, where love and joy should reside.

Her own people...