A Fair Lady Poem by Esther McCallister

She sat in tattered skirts in mired streets of old.
Who her friend would ever be?
She sat with face pressed to the pane upon the window sill so cold.
Her fair face frozen fast to the pane.
Who her friend could ever be?
She sat with death on empty streets.
Her cold and lifeless heart refused to beat.
Who her friend would ever be.
Her children she had sent to war.
There they died in sure defeat.
Their writhing bodies in agony replete.
Death the final score.
Who their friend could ever be.
Their voices from the earth resound.
Who our friend shall ever be?
Lord if my Friend you might be
Then please deliver me.