Colors of Labour
The heat pounds against his back.
while the sun vibrates red
beating down on the burning crops. With blistered hands
he continues plucking and chucking
with repeative hopeless thoughts of an early departure.
The eighteen hour day ends. He's lethargic and
and drags body home. His back creaks and cracks,
with every step simultaneously rolling his neck for comfort.
The air cools to his body to compliment his hard labour.
He opens the door as beads of sweat
drop heavy from his black gritty mask.
He cleans his hands in the brown water from
the pump outside the tiny one bedroom shack.
His five children dive into his body with as he groans
in pain, handing him a small bowl of rice
and a cup of goat's milk.
He sits at the family table
and stares at his children playing on the
warped wooden floor. With a tuckered smile,
He gazes at the next generation of
doctors, lawyers, or teachers,
not pluckers and chuckers.
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