Poverty.

She stands before the robots with a blanket tied around her abdomen and a small wrinkled board in her hand-the letters small and unequally written. She awkwardly waves and signs at passengers in old,new and fancy cars. Her sun kissed skin wrinkled by the hardships of poverty. Her sorrows engraved deeply in her demeanor. The robots interchange between red and green and with each passing car does an opportunity to feed her malnourished child pass by. A window occasionally opens and a five rand coin makes it’s way into her tired hands. A child about two or so lies hanging fast asleep on her back. When the rush hour traffic subsides her aching feet rest on the pavement beside the road which for two hours she constantly walked. The shame of having to take money from strangers her living reality.

The coins kindly given to her,enough to buy bread and some milk for the night. The rest just enough to take her home. For every day she becomes Poverty. A life she’s only ever know and unlikely to ever leave.

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