Photo by Rahul Talukder

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

We wonder:
“Where do they come from?”



4 thoughts on “Factory

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s