The Little Match-Seller
A thick, white, fur coat
for a lady walking on
a thick, white, snowy coat
belonging to the street walked upon.
That lady walking by-
in the coat so thick and white-
pretended to be oblivious
to the poor girl in her sight.
Isn’t Christmas the time for joy?
Because at this sight, I shed a tear.
Isn’t it time for miracles?
At least not for this poor girl here.
I cry for this poor, innocent creature.
I weep for this precious soul,
who’s begging these disgusted people
to buy a single match, or a bundle whole.
Matches scatter the snow,
falling from her apron white
as both her hands shiver from
the heartless, cruel night.
Back against a wall
she sits, gazing through windows.
Seeing a blazing fire
while her tiny fingers froze.
Seeing children of her own age
tearing presents that reveal toys.
Seeing mums and dads, and in their arms
little girls and little boys.
Oh! How she wished to go home,
her home twelve miles away.
But forbidden she was, by her parents,
until she earned twopence today.
If she came home with the same matches
she left with in the morn,
she’d be beaten, scolded at, hated.
Just as was the day she was born.
Lay the apron down she did,
and rubbed her hands together.
Despite her hard efforts, she
cannot fade the raw weather.
She looked longingly at the matches,
longingly at her only possession.
But all they’d do is stare back dully,
every one with dull expression.
“One match shan’t do any harm”, said she,
the girl who trembled on the street.
With that remark, the match was struck!
And soon she felt the heat.
But no ordinary heat this was.
‘twas not coming from a single flame
before her stood a living stove
and from there the warmth came.
But before she could fully appreciate
the warmth of the dancing fire,
the stove disappeared along with the match
that came to its expire.
She hastily grabbed another match
and brushed it on the wall.
What she saw wasn’t a stove, but
it made her gasp in awe.
A dinner table (with roast chicken,
and candles which were lit)!
But the table faded away with the dying match
as she raised her hand to touch it.
Once more she lit another match
and standing before her
stood a proud Christmas tree, and
streamers-beautiful they were
But-by now you would’ve figured-
the tree did not last long.
Poor thing, she hoped it would’ve stayed
but we all know she was wrong.
The girl, she lighted another match,
to you it may seem déjà vu.
To her, each match held surprise, so
stop she wouldn’t until every match was through.
But, this time, no flame appeared.
Not a stove, not some food, nor a Christmas tree.
All was same, except for a
transparent angel that she could see.
This angel- Oh! So beautiful!
White strands of hair billow behind her white dress.
The little match seller looked down at her hands.
Standing before the angel, she looked such a mess!
The angel floating in the air-
her skin was pale and wrinkled,
her peaceful whiteness shame the falling snow
as her creamy eyes twinkled.
And as the little girl admired the angel,
a deadly wind flew by,
and the flame flickered threateningly,
“I’m going to die,” it seemed to cry.
The little girl gathered all her matches,
and fed them to the dying fire.
And though the wind was merciless,
the growing fire did the opposite to tire.
“Oh Gwand-mamma! How have you been?”
the little girl had to ask.
“I’m very well, love,” she replied
in a voice of melted syrup in a flask.
I’m very well, love… love…
The girl’s grandmamma was the only one
who called the girl “love”, and only
into Grandmamma’s arms she would run
She talked with her Grandmamma-
too occupied to notice
the angel’s colour die, like
a perishing white sacred lotus.
When she noticed, she clung onto
the angel’s outline of an arm.
“NO! Gwand-mamma! Have mercy on my heart!
Don’t go and take with you your charm!”
The angel caressed her face and said,
“Go home, dearest, go home, my child.
I’ll be in your hear, as I always have,”
and she gravely smiled.
“Oh! Gwand-mamma!
How I wish I could!
But faw-bidden I am, by mama and papa
until I sell these goods.”
She pointed towards the burning match
and shed a dreaded tear.
“Dada hits me; Mama slaps me.”
The girl shivered at the thought. In fear.
You don’t find angels crying;
not an angel, let alone.
But it cried and scooped up the girl
and away they’d flown…
…just as the last match vanished…
A thick, white, fur coat
for a lady walking on
a thick, white, snowy coat
belonging to the street walked upon.
Matches scatter the snow,
matches from the girl’s apron white
as her corpse lay there, still,
from the heartless, cruel night.
Somewhere no pain exists-
her soul was at that place.
Safe in Grand mamma’s arms, she was happy-
I could tell from her smiling face.
Is Christmas the time for joy?
Because at this sight, I shed a tear.
Is it time for miracles?
A tear of joy, for this little one here.
By Radhika
Writing Month. You might say to yourself: “Huh? Why do professional novelists need a special month to write? Aren’t they supposed to write all the time? Afterall, it is their job!” Well, NaNoWriMo isn’t for professional writers. It’s for writers like you and me who want to set themselves a challege. When you sign-up for NaNoWriMo, you set yourself a goal to write a novel with a certain number of words in ONE month. The adult site specifies that you have to write 50 000 (yes that is fifty thousand) words, but the young writers program is more flexible and lets you set your own word limit.
As you read The Diary of Anne Frank (playscript by Goodrich and Hackett), respond to the play on your blog. It doesn’t matter what you respond to, specifically, or which parts, as long as you are responding. A few “starters” that might help:
Not the name of the next horror film at Vincom, Do I dare disturb the