The Oldest Profession Poem by nimal dunuhinga

I have seen her on several occasions.
Once at a bus stop, in a crowing narrow street or may be in front of a crowded pub.
She belongs to everybody it seems.
The sole breadwinner who fights with life survives her whole family
It seemed her Crown prince has disappeared mysteriously.
She knows very much about true love and the exact depth of wicked life.
So, you need not to bargain.
She has to go back to her slums as the loved ones wait at the threshold.
Please let her lives and do not ask her name.
Just call her sister when you are taking a brackish kiss.