On the crowded, rug covered pavements of Sharia El Azhar
She spied my rich white skin, amongst the impoverished bazaar
Her lungs engulfed by sizzling gridlocked fumes
Eyes stung by battered-Lada monoxide plumes
This girl was maybe seven, maybe only six years old
Already trained by Father, all that's bought must then be sold

So young and yet so clear, about the daily task ahead
To grind out every penny like a stone that's being bled
To keep those cracked and hungry lips, and frail body fed
To keep the sandy earth below her pre-conditioned head
This wasn't Khan-el-Khalili, home of finicky tourist-strolls
This was trading pure and raw, to achieve the basest goals

She held a bowl of stainless steel, waved it in my direction
My response, or rather lack of it, has since caused me much reflection
I smiled but no doubt sunk her heart, as I guiltily shuffled past
It would have cost me nothing, a nagging feeling that would last
She couldn't dwell like I have dwelt, just seek another prize
Her toughness shines as brightly as the night-cloaked Giza skies

Sell to live, and live to sell
This is your future little girl
This is your life already mapped
No point in even feeling trapped
You were dropped, and this is where you fell
Further from heaven than you are from hell
No Cinderella ending, no enchanted magic spell
Sharia El Azhar is your future little girl

One year on from Cairo, and I'm a reminiscing fool
On this temperate little island, gently wrapped in cotton wool
We're of the same planet, but our lives are worlds away
Over here little girl, there's wet floor signs on our motorways