A mother holds her child's hand, walking stealthy,
For the heat have their feet scorched,
Everything burns, the sand too,
The little one's feet are swollen, staring....
across the street others have shoes on reflectin' sunrays with a glitter,
The rest theirs harbours holes totally a tatter,
Things were not this way,
Equality was the order of the day,
When the freed slaves had the say,
Sun burns mother and child, have no shield in the nation of the fittest,
Alas! The child lights up,
Yielps and wriggles a finger,
'There momma, look there!
Those shoes will be nice to wear! '
The mother looks at the child, sadly,
Shields his eyes with her palm, and gently whispers to his ear,
'Hush now dear, they are not for sale! '
The mother then looks at the arranged comfort of all colours, of all sizes,
Not for their feet, too weak to bear the prices.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem