The Forgotten Goddess
Abstract: In the Victorian period, prostitutes were called the “Fallen Women” just like Lucifer was called the fallen angel. It is because prostitution was considered unholy and against the law. Here is a short instance by me from the life of a prostitute in 1890 London, her name is Emma.
When the rain tried to wash away
The darkness of the new-moon night
At one corner of the crossroad
Stood she.
Her back leaning on the damp wall
Eyes seeking for a hungry gaze
Yes, even tonight she is the prey
Yet how could she escape?
Her little girl lies in that cold room
Beside the fireplace
Too dim and pale.
While her starving cry is the only music
Of the tale.
Back in the streets
Throbbing with horror and pain
Emma kept pulling up a smile
For every passerby.
Although miles apart,
The sobs of the little soul
Kept echoing in her heart.
After ages of longing,
When her limbs grew tired
And she could stand no more.
A man came to her from
Behind the shadows.
She rose and spoke in
Broken weak voice:
Only a shilling Sire,
For my spirit and my sick little child.
Without a word of mercy,
The man held her by the hairs
And pushed her against the sodden wood
There in the dark, he fed on her.
She just wished for the feast to end
Kept counting every fraction of time
Then, she would grab some morsel And without wasting a breath Run to the fireside.
Just to hold her beloved in the arms And give her all the warmth
From this body,
So chilled and numb.
Maybe a few centuries had passed And when the man was full,
With an intense feeling of joy Emma extended her shivering arm For the coin of the bargain.
Instead, the beast gave a sick smile While thrashed her hard on the pillar. In a moment, he disappeared Into the mist once again.
And slowly the world around her Grew silent and dimmer.
In trance of the shock
She could hear her baby
Screaming with fear
If only she had a little more strength To wake up and take few steps. Yet she failed
And gave in to the ache.
There in the room,
The fire also has given up
An hour ago.
Now, the tiny body
Wrapped in the torn cloth
Has gone cold.
No more cries, no more tears All was calm and the rain was quiet. And again had returned
The peace of the night.
When the light came back
From the sleep.
Emma was sitting
In the frozen chamber.
With blood on her temples,
And a bleeding soul.
She couldn't cry nor yell.
Tied in an unbroken spell
She might have sat there
For a long long time
Holding the corpse in her hand. All of her paralyzed.
Today, after decades when
The lost story has grown old. Emma still visits the grave every day I see her and often wonder
Isn't she the Goddess
We all forgot to pray?
Good poetry
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