Sonnet: Maid-servants

I hear the noise of washing clothes on stone;
The sun is scorching fiercely overhead;
A lady works for wages all alone;
She looks so famished, weathered, almost dead!

I hear the clatter-noise of pots and pans;
A woman washes vessels piled like mound;
She sweeps and mops the floor as if by dance!
And then, her broom begins to clean the ground.

I hear the noise of food being prepared;
A tiny kitchen smokes throughout the day;
A half-clad woman walks with nails unpared;
Her hair unkempt, she draws a meagre pay.

In society, we need sure hierarchy;
Nevertheless, there must be sympathy!

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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