A Discard Doll

I slipped from the Manor's upstairs into the trash bin. My hair burnt, eyes removed and they amputated my hands. I stuck in the leftovers, among the stench I cannot see anything And I write on a broken slate with a piece of chalk which gripped by my right foot's fingers. Darkness is better than a true vision. And I think of the new doll who sings well in the upstairs. I humbly pray for her a long-life in the Mansion. *[ Australian Man throws the daughter off bridge. A morning News.] I dedicate this poem to innocent street children where they sleep under the same transparent sky.