A
bowl of river on the head,
Promenading
in alleys of wheels without dread,
Retailing
succour from thirst
To
weary gobs hastening home to rest.
Peering
from naked Marcopolo window,
In
wonder lost like a bemused widow,
Behold,
child labour and abuse;
Such
reality I choose to refuse.
How
she got here I can’t explain,
My
mind couldn’t walk away from the pain,
Then
I cast the first stone – this isn’t right!
Could
this truly be poverty’s might?
Oh!
Come see the future chasing wind,
As
toil to procure circadian feed;
Wholly
sudor sodden all over,
“Buy
your sachet water”, bellowed she with power.
It
was already late at night,
Does
her warden for her care when out of sight?
“Hey,
bring two chilled sachet water”, appealed a commuter;
Traversing
stretched hand moved her to flight for barter.
“Here...take”,
retorted she. Barter in progress;
“Give
me my change”, commuter solicited. With boldness
The
change she relayed. Barter completed.
“Thank
you Ma,” warmly and softly she said,
And
embused Marcopolo opened up throttle. She was gone,
But
who knows what will to her happen? No fun
It
is to make a teen grow this way;
Only
time will tell what becomes of her someday.
There
are others like her;
Fifteen,
seventeen, nineteen. Regardless of whom they are,
There
you have it – child labour and abuse,
Such
reality always will I choose to refuse.
A
bowl of river on the head,
If
it were someone you know, would you have cared?
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