The Forbidden Fruit

How wrong are we?
We let them fall in pits,
all covered in filth.
They live,just to feed.

She wakes up everyday.
It is another day in hell,
collecting brown,black and white peices,
the fruit of our daily feed.

She scrapes and she shifts,
peice by peice, she puts-
into the basket,sometimes a tray.
A burden on her shoulders, it remains.

Do we rever her?
but no,we turn the other way.
Suffering in silence,she edges forward,
so her offspring may survive another day.

The law has no teeth.
Dry latrines exist-
eventhough forbidden.
It is left for her to clean.

'Pucca' latrines are made,
but who will clean the gutter?
its certainly not you or me,
but the gutty, fearless woman.

She carries hell on her shoulders,
the stink etches its way forward.
We stifle our breath, we turn our heads,
she fights ahead with her shovel and tray.