Poetry from Manik Chakraborty

Looking at the tall buildings, 

the stones of those buildings are black with blood. 

The water stained with tears on the iron railings of those buildings,

 the stairs of those buildings have deteriorated as much as they can. 

The sweat of slaves on the white stones of those buildings,

 the bones broken by whips, 

the price of labor has not been paid.

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