Sonnet: Maid-Servants Poem by Dr John Celes

I hear the noise of washing clothes on stone;
The sun is scorching fiercely overhead;
A lady works for wages all alone;
She looks so famished, weathered, almost dead!

I hear the clatter-noise of pots and pans;
A woman washes vessels piled like mound;
She sweeps and mops the floor as if by dance!
And then, her broom begins to clean the ground.

I hear the noise of food being prepared;
A tiny kitchen smokes throughout the day;
A half-clad woman walks with nails unpared;
Her hair unkempt, she draws a meagre pay.

In society, we need sure hierarchy;
Nevertheless, there must be sympathy!