She drags her feet
On the red dusty footpath
Along the busy highway
Cars, like life swish by
In total oblivion of her
Many times she’s too tired
To move on, other times
She’s a fire unchecked
She stoops as if in pain
Never having had the luxury
Of shedding her heavy load
Her gait belies her strong back
That carries home the world
Her gentle eyes have licked
The fires of hell
Been pushed time and again to the brink
Yet made the journey back
She sits at the market place
Behind five small piles of potatoes
Unties the baby straddled on her back
Freeing one dry breast to suckle
And another long day begins
PoP© 18 July 07
1 comment:
This is so true. I pass by a market every morning and this is the exact scene i have to see every single morning. Very sad but true
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