Dark Alleys leading to darker zones
Furnaces smoking incessantly
A trail of meagre sunlight peeking in
From a square opening atop the barred windows
A shrill whistle disturbs the ominous silence
A flurry of activity commence
Short fragile bodies move at lightning speed
To deliver scalding hot molten glass
From the furnace to the moulds
To be moulded into stunningly beautiful bangles,
Very different from those parched faces
And now coarse hands and frail limbs
That work day and night
For long exhausting hours sans a break.
Emptying the pans to be rushed back and refilled
Muffled cries of pain escape from the sealed lips
As a drop or two slips on to the blistered hands and legs
Working on the moulds to create with finesse
Shushed into silence by the hawk eyes
Following their slightest deflection.
Innocence being strangled and suffocated to near death
In the dreary and scary dark dungeons
Bereft of even a breath of fresh air and light
Slaughter-houses of childhood and future citizens
Of this ever-progressive world.
© Vinita Surana ([email protected])