samreen Chowdhury

Born a slave

18 months of complete growth, 

The mill is what they now own, and the only thing. That mill is their labour, every disturbing and long hour; loads of fresh canes must be supplied;

If there is a faint or cry, the cart Whip’s power gives good force which Nature’s  powers reject. 

Is the time of the tall canes rich juices fill;

In groups to bring their liquor forth

And to convey them to the bruising mill.

In apparent stance, to be raised and born with black skin is a gift,


In this scathing land of liberty, there is limited amount of contentment. 

There are bonded baby slaves, all displayed like a carefully painted picture in a structured line.


Through despair, and horrific cries and screams, from the heated whips and shackling beats, the world goes by and does not heed. They are vigorously driven to the mill just to glut and overfill. 


In another section, a young baby snatched from a mother’s arms,

To burst coffers of the mighty monarch, greed and no guilt. And when they’re perished, they’re simply told that it is, 


Apparently God’s will, that this fate is a matter of destiny and it was all meant to be, so this mixture of whip and whimpering is sacred, a sort of gift from God, they’re forced to believe, 


It is surely Gods will.

O’ the roaring of the mill.

And this is the beginning of the future of this child, and they work like wild animals, with no mercy inflicted upon, and the blood stains and ash that drains, 


Is nothing but something for the market place. And in another direction mothers stood. With their streaming eyes and saw their dearest child sold; unheeded rose their bitter woes,


while the cruel tyrants battered them for gold. And women who looked from their husbands to their dear babies had only a heavy tongue, unable to speak and express love. Because women are not people but lunatics and criminals,


What place does a woman have?

She is to only endure the anguish, the pain and her body is used to conceive for the sake of the market place. 


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