The Factory
The factory is near by.
The smoke is rising high through the chimneys.
The fire is burning bright within the soot-coated walls.
The wages are hefty.
The employers are fine.
The workers fall in line.
Nobody questions.
Nobody answers.
Nobody wonders.
Nobody looks behind.
Nobody looks ahead.
Everyone is fed and fattened.
Great ideas are manufactured there.
There is an exhibition of ‘isms’.
Who cares what does each of them mean?
Who ponders over the repercussions?
Who risks seeking the roots?
Who takes charge of ending it right there?
A propaganda is designed and it is designed beautifully.
It spreads like a wildfire.
It asks for blood, heart, and soul.
The ‘why’ is left untouched and uncomprehended.
The workers come and go.
They earn their bread.
They feed their children.
They do not question.
They do not answer.
They remain content.
An idea is supported by false reasons.
It grows into a complicated web.
The foundation is shallow yet strong.
Nobody dares to break the rhythm.
They all believe in revolution.
They don’t understand what is a revolution.
A dinner party, a drag of smoke, some jamming and some books and walls adorned with a few posters.
The factory is nearby.
Great ideas are manufactured there.
