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by: ShanQo

she had her baby cradled in one arm, clad with nothing but a dirty pair of shorts. the scorching sun was ruthless on his infant skin, burning it to a dark, crusty, scaly brown. his eyes almost exiting the comforting cradle of their sockets roamed in languid desperation. he pawed at his face with his coarse palms, lazily wiping away the dried mix of mucus and tears from his face, which left permanent ridges of poverty on his cheeks and around the corners of his mouth.

igziabher yisTilign

she didn’t say a word, as she routinely stuck out her hand at me, palms etched with scars of pain and struggle, nails stained with dirt from a lifetime of digging for gold, only to be confronted with the miserable clunk of hard, cold rock. her eyes tried their hardest to don an uncompromising stare, but they faltered, as they often did. she quickly looked at the ground, and adjusted her grasp around the baby. my hands were itching to roll up my windows and turn up the volume on my stereo (Hey, didn’t I put in Aster’s new album in the CD changer this morning?)

igziabher yisTilign

she bites her lips brutally. i couldn’t figure out if it were desperation, shame, hunger … or all three. she pulled back her hand and re-adjusted the rags around the baby, covering up some of his bare back from the cruel glares of the sun.

igziabher yisTilign

she gave me one last wistful look before turning away, while sucking on her lips. with both arms around her baby, she kissed the poor soul on his scorched forehead and said, “m’Ts! Igziabher’ima minim alseTeNim. Why do you think I’m turning to you people?”

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