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Woman from Granada

A poem about a woman I passed frequently on the streets in Granada, Nicaragua

A woman collects water in the street
To wash her hands, her legs, her feet
She is worn from the sun.
 
Whose hand does she hold when she is scared?
Does she pray?
 
When I look into her eyes I see a child
But her skin hangs and she knows
I’m not going to give what she asks from me
Because I’m afraid.
 
She wears an apron decorated with pink ribbons and flowers.
A woman whose soul as elegantly woven as mine.
Who am I to decline?
 
Oh, how easy it is to walk by.

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