My parents wept when I was born
“Another mouth to feed”, “a nuisance”
“A fussy child” – “always crying”
Rotten bread and sour milk didn’t sit
Quite right with me at that age, I suppose
At age three I started to work
Hot sands were unforgiving to soft skin
Quickly I learned not to stumble, or fall
No one would lift me from the ground
Lest they help and risk the whip
Hear our cries echo
The heavy yoke on my shoulders
A wood-carved collar scraping my skin
Wounds blistering in the desert sun
Growing muscles protesting the abuse
Why, God - My God?
I watch a boy being dragged to the stake
Blood dripping from his little fingers’ nail.
My head turned forward; my feet kept marching.
My face did not betray my heart’s screams.
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