The woman insane

Perhaps a moment, a minute maybe
is all that she wants, ‘tis all that she needs.
The woman whom ideally they call insane
whom they call a nuisance, a threat they blame.
What is with her? That she scares the passer-by’s
with a stone in her hand and fury in her eyes.
“Where does she live?” a child out of innocence
asks his mom as they whizz past by.
No time for the woman,
not a minute at all.
To listen to her woes, listen to ‘em all.
In a perpetual murmur she speaks out her words.
Alas! To the little lad they seem unheard.
With a courageous heart, she ought to have lied;
when she laughed through her voice, with tears in her eyes.
Are there no hands to wipe them out?
To ease the crease of her frown?
Perhaps a poet like me might want
to purge off her woes with a magical wand.
Or slap her hard, at least make her cry,
such little do we think, seldom do we try.
The lady in the bus who laughs in haste
of her son, whom the mad woman had chased.
What matters? We don’t have a moment or two,
for we have our own lives, our sanity to pursue.
Miles apart from the woman, I now travel by
thinking of her, with a tear in my eye.
Maybe I should have gone, least should have tried.
Bound by my helplessness, to ease out the pain
to resurrect the soul of a woman insane
who yearns for a moment, a minute in vain.