Rice. One bowl in the morning, another in the afternoon.
The assembly line screeches as arthritic gears clash beneath my hands.
I stitch together floral dresses for faceless American cows.
A bayonet gives me a reassuring poke in the back to remind me that I need to work faster to beat the capitalist pigs at their own game.
I don't need breaks; rest is for the weak.
Workers of the world,
unite.
God bless Karl Marx.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem