Through their eyes

A childs view of the clashing worlds of the developed and poverty stricken.

Leaning back against a post, I stopped to listen to the throbbing hum of noise around me. The heavy footstep of traders blended with the light pitter-patter of the street children was like rainfall on a tin roof, although more common than the blessed rainfall that rarely touched our land. The usual conversations of bartering goods, of traders yelling out sales and promises of richer spices, softer leathers, to hopefully result in perhaps the rustle of cloth being passed from hand to hand as a trader made a precious sale of silk. The wind rustling through the carpets hanging on the sides of the sand walls and flicking up the ends of billowing scarves, the no longer unusual clip clop of high heels of the western variety, accompanied with the click of a camera. Perfect. easy target – a tourist. A cunning smile played about my lips at the thought of her. I glanced around searching for the source of the noise, I knew I had to be quick, this time of day was always good for our kind of business but I wouldn’t risk the chance of another street child getting to her before me.

The End

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