As I walk down the corridor

I meet him every day. As I walk down the corridor our academic block. A sweet, healthy toddler trying to play around. His body covered with cement and sand. Unattended. He keeps talking to himself in some mystical language; trying to discover the world around him, like Columbus. His toys are bricks, stones, wires; all littered around as heavy construction goes on. He keeps playing. His mother keeps working; carrying a brick load over her head; keeping balance on the makeshift ladder. And in the afternoon, after leeching the last drop of milk, of his mother, he sleeps. Like a tired angel. Bare on the floor. With a small napkin under his head. This cycle goes on every day. As I walk down the corridor. And as his mother tells him to grow up fast. Grow up strong. As I walk down the corridor. He will grow up. Grow up strong. And one day he will run away; for a fag, for a job, for a girl. As I walk down the corridor, her mother tells him to grow up.