Even in the heatwave, the women toiled for less pay than a chilled soda, their forms weary and scorched beneath yards of black fabric. The men, they sat in the towns sipping tea from glass cups, chatting, enjoying the comfort of shade. If a man were seen in the fields he was driving a tractor, but rarely we saw such a thing. All my life it haunts me, how those women live and die in such suffering. It haunts me how this world is set up to benefit from their labour... They aren't cherished... nor free... but trapped with their potential suffocated.
In the heatwave we lived in the early hours and long into the eventide, the middle of the day was for cold drinks and siestas.
The heat wave brought long days best for the dreaming of new poetry than more physical endeavours. The streets were quiet, the construction work paused, and together we gathered in where there was air conditioning, music and iced drinks for all.
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