I clean the shoes on their feet
That they thrust at my 7-year old face
But I understand, he’s a city man
My little hands dare not make him late.
I wake up to work, I walk to work
I sleep only so that I can work
When I get to work I’m beaten to work,
Even though I never stop,
Harder, faster, better or beating
I eat whatever makes me work.
Zaynab Chinoy in her blog. HereOne day we were awarded an hour’s break,
So I leaned back on the factory’s outer wall,
Looking at the buildings, and roads and shimmering dresses,
And thought: I had a hand in them all!
But as I looked at my hands,
Bruised and rough, like a tired old man’s,
I wondered: Is a hand in them all I will have?
What I was to shed as tears for my predicament,
I shed it all as sweat.
But suddenly, I was surprised to find,
A tear slowly creep out of my eyes,
How could it be? I asked myself
But then I realized…
It was just how my body sweats… in my hour of rest.