The Untouchable Prostitute, made in China

The Untouchable Prostitute, made in China

She has been abused since her tender years,
Invaded, humiliated in numerous occasion
Brought to her knees by locals and foreigners
Raped and consumed as a slave

Traditional in its up bringing,
She has now a modern foreign make up,
Yet again, often forced to please
and open up her doors to new clients

Many of her children have deserted to foreign lands
And she often feels alone, abandoned with a low self esteem
A second class citizen in the eyes of the world

Her merciless Masters tireless of using and abusing her services
A long life tradition of being used by the rich and powerful
By those who can seduce her,
for a bit of gold or just a meal

For a brief moment in history
She flirted with liberty and honour
Self respect and emancipation from her history of endless abuse
It was short lived, disrupted by foreign invasions

Masters could not entertain her possible liberation
The idea of her standing up was too alien
Not within the Confucius traditions of eternal submission
Kneeling to the ground and bowing to powerful

Many of her off springs, now flood the market
For sale, as slave labourers, locally and abroad
All for sale, bowing for trade, bending to the next client
Filling the endless demand for flesh and blood
As infants, slaves or as new wives for the rich all across the world

Lost wasted lives, in distant lands
Lost souls seeking a lost identity
A whole civilization consumed and exploited
Once more by the same insatiable raiders

Her semblance always impeccable
A blossom flower for all seasons ready to be plucked and sold again
She puts a brave face as she opens herself to please the highest bidder.
A body at the mercy of the merciless

Yet, they are impotent to penetrate her Gate of Heaven
They are blind to admire her inner beauty
They are oblivious of the deepness of her heart
They are unable to sense the depth of her soul

As the clouds cleanse the surface of the moon
She kneels one more time,
This time to say her prayer and prepare to the night

Streams of water from the High Mountains runs through her face
The breeze blows outside, she closes her eyes and she returns home.
Like the moon, her sister, admired by the many yet untouched

The skies cry with thunder,
The Gods signal their anger,
The Gates of Heaven are flooded, not breached
She is liberated, finally, untouched, lifted into eternity.
.
Serge waismann

London