Slavery

Slavery

They call it a home, I call it a prison,
tripping over ourselves. There isn’t room
to move.

At least we’re given time to breath.
But this simple relief is to harvest
the crops of thieves.
We carry double our bodyweight,
working nonstop
in summer’s heat before dropping off
a back-breaking load, then
repeat.

Back to the black confines of our ‘home’
where we work in the dark, in numbers
but alone. Sometimes the blinding sunlight
shafts shine through and we’re made drowsy with fumes
so they can exhume the gold we produce.

I’ve heard the buzz of rebellion, a murmur
from the deep, orders that come direct from the queen.
In our millions we’d swarm everything
in our path, a stinging attack forcing
our captors to give back what they took.

But for now, we behave
like happy little slaves.