Machines. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

Washing machines are useful, they say.
They help in saving time.They may.
But can they help with using it usefully?
All machines play with our feelings, actually.
They welcome you into their world
And once you're in they can't let you out.
Your free will is definitely lost.
For no cost.
Can they feel your disarray
And act accordingly?
Do they have hearts to get attached to you
The way you get attached to them?
Do they cry when you're badly hurt?
Do they smile when you're in joy immersed?
Do they care for you like you do for them?
But then, do we truly care for our brethren?
And do they, our brothers, care for us in return?
Do we share their joys and their sadness?
And are they saddened by the mischief around us?
Don't we often do harm to one another?
And machines? Do they really bother?
Are we one and all or all against all?
Aren't cold machines better, after all?