‘The Oxen’ (a Poem)

In factories
Secluded from the lights
Of your civilisation
(Cold walls,
Screeching steel)
We stand and wait.

Comfort is found
In scraps of peace:
The lightest pressure
Of breath against skin,
A wet nose,
A slow blink
Of thick-lidded eyes.

In factories
Shielded from the glories
Of your progress
(Hoarse voices,
Electric jolts)
We stagger onwards.

Image sourced via Creative Commons.


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2 Comments Add yours

  1. Kristina says:

    Beautiful, moving poem.

    Like

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