In their hands is the hammer, not toys
Ripped through maternal lap, labor they in mine-
For bread, for pence, not butter, not wealth.
The stomach groans-the roaring suppressed
In confines of stifling cave;
The feeble body reduced to a desiccated grape.
On their helplessness and docility the sharks prey-
Labor hours elongate, but not the bread;
The body aches, no recompense
For the masters flesh is available too.
Shorn of dignity… bereft of self-worth, labor and
Holding in check fantasies of joyous childhood.
(Published in International Zeitschrift, May 2010)