This poem is not only for the 1134 who perished when Rana Plaza collapsed that day, but for the ones who crawled out, and also for those who were never found.
——————————————————————-Screaming into the hollow;
Their wails are filtered out.
Their cries are met by un-eyed pity,
Yet stories remain untold.
Their worth is set by the hour;
Fingers calloused and cold.
No universal love hounded these people.
No exposé leading to bored youth on the streets.
No column inches, not even the tiny ones at the side reserved for the most insignificant people .
No journalists having a lazy news week documented their versions of the myths–
The myths that say they had what was coming to them,
The myths that that paint lashes on their backs,
The myths that denounce compassion as a foreign word,
The myths that proclaim comfort and security as the most precious of human conditions,
The myths that maintain innocence and virtue as holy, without any mention that it is the same for freedom.
Their mothers are silenced. Their fathers with new mothers
forget to send postcards congratulating them of their failures.
We see them executed on coat hangers;
We wear them on the soles of our muddy feet.
And on days like these,
The most insignificant of days,
The most uneventful of days
“Where do they come from?”