Charcoal hands with brawn at the ends,
mist smeared at his rustic bends.
The placid face, worn off too young,
lines of hard work, unable to be wrung.
Watery eyes, parched lips, bare foot for a mile,
still, the apparent despondency had a smile.
He picks up the spade,
Humps it into the heap of boulders of trade.
The furnace exhales putrid smoke,
his nights and strides still awoke.
He falls, gets up, punching down the Earth,
he has hope, never which can be in dearth.
Those tattered clothes,
those spilled curses and oaths,
the malediction of his seemingly benefactor,
his employer, the brazen contractor.
Though the factory brews with depravity,
last night’s dry bread saves this anxiety.
Look around! you will find him there,
toiling in the heat, grovelling in the dust all bare.
He thinks, he hopes, he works,
but the unfortunate unknown Death always lurks.
He is not futile in his incessant attempts,
those whips and lashes aren’t anything he tempts.
His morning prayers do reach the Almighty,
he is there to lessen his pain & bring prosperity.
Still at last, it’s upon us, the liberal society,
to ameliorate this system & bring equality!
Those factory workers, some old & some bold,