The smell of the factory is exquisite.
The machine rolls on,
infinite.
The clamor of steel,
the welder's flash
faces black
with soot and ash.
One bell rings, and they shuffle in
another sounds, and they shuffle out.
Shoprats don't live, they survive.
Grind out their lives
like the gears they work on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice poem. I liked it. It was written well with great texture and imagery. I rated it 10. Thanks for sharing..... Kindly read and rate my poem 'A humble complaint' on page 2. Best regards Akmal