Barefoot through the bazaar,
And with the same undulant grace
As the cloth blown back from her face,
She glides with a stone jar
(5) high on her head
And not a ripple in her tread.
Watching her cross erect
Stones, garbage, excrement, and crumbs
Of glass in the Karachi slums,
(10) I, with my stoop, reflect
They stand most straight
Who learn to walk beneath a weight.