Beneath the aching winter’s shroud,

A child walked mute through the bustling crowd.

Her feet, bare whispers on the frozen stone,

Her ribs a harp of hunger’s tone.

She carried a box, her treasure, her thread

Of tiny star-sticks, sulfur-fed.

She called to the rich, the hurried, the gray,

“Buy one, kind sir, and light your way.”

But no one paused, no coin was tossed,

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