Excuse me, sir, but have you seen my Identity?
Rainbow shawl draped last did I see,
Over her shoulders.
Sprightly young Girl?
Talking to trees, perhaps?
No, sir! Definitely not that timid lass
Her head bent low.
Are you quite sure, sir,
That no maiden singing
To herself, counting
Dreams off her fingers
Has this way been passing?
My salt water compassion went away:
The day I lost my Identity.
That gentle, noble heart, untarnished
By the ways of the world.
It rains, sir.
How she would have scorned to see,
The umbrella’s protection you seek.
Rain cures, say she.
Poor child:
Of remaining found, not capable.