The Little Textile Worker

You may find him in the East and in the South, This small child slave. His little eyes Look out a weary on the world. His little mouth Is hard and old, in babyhood; his shoulders droop. But skinny hands fly at the broken threads, Tie up the knot, undo the tangled loop Unerringly, with quick, machine-like skill. Quick-witted hands. Only they may live. The baby promise Of all other human faculties the great machines soon kill.

Child Slave, Little Eyes, Broken Threads, Textile Worker, Labour Day Poems, Little Labour, Child Labour