For all the little girls brought from their homes each day to work for the rich as maids and as garbage collectors. I have seen some of these girls abused and broken. Dead. In and out.
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The chill that sets in freezes her frail body so.
She sits in the kitchen that has become her only home and hides in the warmth of sorrow.
She turns to the heavens high above and remembers the faces of those she loved.
A child of eight she may be but can she handle all this labour and abuse?
She asks for answers of how and why:
What is life without a living for me? What is happiness without laughter?
All this talk of human rights without protection for me? What is humanity without mercy?
What will I do without my mother, my soul provider? Is life ever full and complete without a mother?
What is a day without a night? Reflection without face?
Friendship without friend? A universe without sympathy and generous sharing?
What is life without a living? An equal living for you and I, the motherless girl-child in Somalia?
She hears the silence pass her by.
Tears roll down her dirty face.
As she glances one more time about the place.
The kitchen that has become her only home.
Dusty and black walls of charcoal stones.
