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.
nimal dunuhinga
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-discard-doll/
