Small hands, and impressionable

Eyes dance. Meeting of history,

cobblestone and brick. Work imitable

 

In the heart of young girls. Boots scurry

Along canals and reach shadowed lanes

The tar coated ground made mystery

 

By the dark insinuations that stains

The mind, taints the heart. The girl looks up

To windows that reveal the inhumane

 

She blinks, and reaches out, but feels a thump

On her back. And meets old, harsh eyes

Which flash in warning. The girl is stumped

 

As to why her mother has sped her stride

To pass the scantily clad women

Whom eyes are hollow. Though belied,

 

the girl knows. Cringes at the desperation

Of the women’s pain. Why do none help

Them? Why do they avert their eyes? Men

 

Walk in the window’s sight, the girl yelps

As they grip arms and draw the women away

From the light, then hold them tight. Boots squelch

 

On the rain dusted streets, and wheels spray

The walkways. No one stops. The young girl

Weeps for the souls that are in decay

 

As her mother drags her out of dark twirled

Streets and into rainbowed lanes of romance.

Walkers and cars bustle past. The world

 

Is unfazed, While the young girl pleads

With them not forget, never forget,

The women in windows of Amsterdam.