I pushed away my cup of hot tea and warm scones,
My throat constricted,
Tears flowed in torrents,
Refusing to subside.
I visioned the Dump Site I visited a few days ago.
The depth of poverty we do not know about,
Garbage Pickers abandoned by the world,
Everything about them permeated by the ghastly trash smell,
Discriminated by society.
Furhaha and her twelve children
Sat huddled under a plastic sheet,
Large puddles of  raw sewage scattered around them,
Emitting foul smell.
None of the children knows who their real father is
Furhaha and her two daughters time and again face ****** abuse and often ****.
What to do, where to go,
Too poor for health care or support.
The Dump Children walk, climb,
dig and ****,
Collecting recyclables,
Plastics, glass and metal,
For a meagre one dollar or much less for the survival of the family,
In return for cuts and bruises
from broken bottles, nails and syringes,
With sometimes risks of being buried under fresh garbage.
Please HELP!
They need love and care,
They need to be in school.