Long as a parent's ache for a hungry child and black as the night sky mined in vain for answers, the limousine straddles the road insouciantly, blocking traffic in the center of town. The children unguarded by parental eyes run up to the car's windows which blunt their curiosity with ebony glass that can be penetrated only by those on the other side. Unthinkingly, one places his palms against the air-conditioned cool of the window which starts to roll down in protest against fingers recently frolicking in mud. The face glowers behind dark glasses with gold rims; since the face tops a tie, the child understands the passenger is too wealthy to appreciate that what is trodden in the humble town provide the only affordable toys for children naked except for thin t-shirts which lost colors long ago and bearing holes as big as the wearers' bellies. "Hoy, who is your father?" demands the man with a tie. He also has three chins, implying the consistent satiation of his hungers at which the children marvel before they bite their lips with jealousy. "Baboy." whispers one of the young ones. Baboy. Pig. The child with muddied hands shushes the whisperer, knowing the word can only make it worse for his father whose name the man demands. "I have no father, sir," the child replies before deciding to run faster than he has ever ran in his young life, faster than when he ran from the fists of his cousin, the bully, faster than in the running contest at school for the prize of a bag of candy, faster and faster from the thought, the possibility that he could have no father, faster and faster and faster in training, a premonition whispers, for all the escapes required someday during the Revolution against the passengers of long, black limousines who run children off roads paved for those with multi-layered chins traveling between the palaces and pyramids built by those who walk off the edge of roads for the only pleasure they can afford: the sifting caress of dirt through their toes.
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