Under the scorching sun I walk,
Trying hard to move swiftly,
The weight of my burden heavy on my back.
I run across the road,
A road smooth as the tongue,
Embroidered with potholes here and there,
Potholes that are filled with delicious soup,
Best served by reckless lorry drivers.
They'll splash it directly into your mouth,
No need for spoons,
Maybe just a serviette,
Because when they get too generous,
It may spill to your nose and eyes.
Mouth watering soup.
My lighter burden on my hand,
I timidly approach my first customer,
Big and pot bellied,
A forest for a beard,
Blood shot eyes,
Wrist strapped with an expensive watch.
He smells like aged expensive wine,
Served in an antique glass.
'Padlocks mister', I managed to whisper.
He feigns a smile,
Suppresses a laughter,
And sends me off with a wave.
Oh, I forgot,
Such kinds don't need padlocks.
Their doors employ biometrics,
Do they have any use for these weighty burden in my hands?
Do they care that I need to survive on these?
And at the end of the day I'll walk my way into my tiny homestead,
My kids will be waiting for me,
Full of hope.
My wife will doubt when I say I didn't manage to sell anything,
She will call me a failure for the hundredth time.
She will call the children in the kitchen and share the little meal available.
She will let me sleep with the dogs,
Hungry and tired,
As if the scorching sun wasn't enough torture.
My kids will cry for me,
They will wish they had a chance to help,
Or the strength to hold on.
They will sleep knowing the next day they'll still be the laughing stalks of the school,
They will give up.
But I won't.
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