Monday, April 8

Memories of a child labourer


To all children, little pulleys and wheels,
Of ever running, ruthless industrial machine
Helper, apprentice, assistant, many are names
Given to them; what difference they make
When the golden days of childhood, precious
Treasures of unforgettable memories to all
Worth no more than a bronze coin, spent
In exchange of a pittance, a meager reward
Innocence of their playful laughter, repressed
Under rattle of metals, screeches of machines
Lay in the base of many haughty walls
Fragrance of their gleeful games, blackened
By smears of grease and smoke of forges
Makes up the pride of many bragging mills
So much world owes to, simple games played
With handy tools, broken parts, petty things
I worked with them and played and laughed
We spent days and nights, working unstopped
Molding, sizing, bending, fitting, scrubbing
Moving, drilling, heating, punching, painting
Appliances of comfort, making lives easy
Somewhere in your house, you might have
An appliance of ease, touched and finished
With the sweat dripping from a tiny forehead,
Perchance you may see (rare, than it happens)
On some covered part , a tiny red stain
Shed from a little finger, too soft to work
These are we, this is our little contribution
To a world that couldn’t be fair to us
Nonetheless, we cared not and we care not
I see my fellows, now grew and blooming
Into days of youth, with all passion and flaws
Rough are their languages, rude is attitude yet
Behind what might seem you, so inappropriate
Lay sensible hearts and evergreen simplicity
Changed by none, though affected by much
My heart fills with joy and infinite compassion
O my fellows, I’m proud to be one of you

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