Our clothing has aged eight decades.
Have you ever looked at its shape?
Like torn dreams,
the stitches are ripped,
holes etched like history
woven in the words of wounds.
Sometimes on the hands,
sometimes on the feet,
the pain of wounds keeps knocking.
Within it linger
the undying hopes of the artisan,
stories of sweat mixed with fresh blood.
Sometimes on the breast,
sometimes on the insides,
a ruthless killer presses down.
The silent screams
of the company’s hands who made it
are sewn inside—
cries no one can hear.
Our garment is helpless.
It is not skin,
yet it carries burdens like skin.
Who protects it?
The one who stitches is the one who tears,
the one who adorns is the one who burns.
Through the holes of the torn cloth
the sun enters
like fire.
It sweats,
it burns
not the sweat of labour,
but the lament of life.
Winter shows no mercy.
Cold winds beat the body,
the body shivers,
bones shiver,
the soul shakes,
humanity falls apart.
Sometimes, in unbearable cold,
the wearer of the garment
falls into the mouth of death.
Yet the garment remains,
half-alive, half-dead, ashamed.
The protector is the predator.
In this world,
stitches are stronger than the thread of exploitation.
The garment tears,
humans tear apart.
But the smile of profit
never tears.
What tears apart
is humanity.
