How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
Westminster rises precariously above and she turned her head upwards to gaze at its imposing height. A wave of shade rolls over her face. The bustle of London concocts more heat than one would imagine, choking its inhabitants in an inferno of toxic gas. Nobody does anything about it though, not even the politicians. They hide in their fancy West End villas, dipping silver spoons into tea served in porcelain cups.
A soldier stands guard at the Abby's entrance, his eyes wandering over the crowd. He locks eyes with the woman for the briefest of moments, and she sees that even he is ashamed. Ashamed to live here.
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"
She turns her bowed head to the left, watching as a young boy, no more than six years of age, shouts over the din.
"French Revolution!"
A tear slips out of her eye in pity, cutting a clear path down grimy cheeks. Poor boy; she wonders what happened to his family. Must have been better than what happened to hers though. Anything's better than her life. Once more she reminds herself it wouldn't matter, that it's almost over. Nothing that happens now can change anything.
