Woe Unto The Tailor. Poem by Emmanuel Ruttoh

‎Woe Unto the Tailor
‎Woe unto the tailor—
‎the needle weeps in silence,
‎stitching garments that betray the soul.
‎My sons have fallen in the streets of vanity,
‎My daughters walk unveiled in broad light,
‎Their dignity traded for fleeting applause.
‎My watchmen grow weary,
‎their voices swallowed by the noise—
‎ministers sit in corners of shame,
‎robes are heavy with unspoken truth.
‎What do you lack?
‎Is it time that escapes your hands?
‎Or profit that blinds your sight?
‎fashionista, fashionista
‎you sign your name sheol,
‎  you are foreordained to perish
‎Why the mini skirt—
‎when it whispers nakedness?
‎Why the tightened dress—
‎when it reveals what should be treasured?
‎Why the transparent cloth—
‎when modesty fades into the crowd?
‎My daughter,
‎you are more than the eyes that follow you.
‎And weddings—
‎Where have the ministers gone blind?
‎That gown—
‎too long, it sweeps the dust of earth,
‎too short, it forgets to cover the sacred.
‎Who unto the tailor—
‎for every thread has a witness,
‎and every garment tells a story.
‎