My tailor’s shears I scorned then;
I strove for something higher:
To edit news–live by the pen–
The pen that shall not tire!
The pen, that was my humble slave,
Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
My rebel tears flow faster.
The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
Whilst I in tatters quaked,
Today, you see me well attired,
Who lets the world go naked.
What human soul, how’er oppressed,
Can feel my chained soul’s yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
In voiceless anguish burning.
Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it.
My blood!… you sweatshop leeches, you!…
Now less I’ll blame you for it.
I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years;
I’ll drive the mad wheel faster;
Slave will I be but to the shears;
The pen shall know its master!
(Morris Rosenfeld)
More Poetry from Morris Rosenfeld:
Morris Rosenfeld Poems based on Topics: World, Soul, Slavery, Madness- On The Bosom Of The Ocean (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
- The Jewish May (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
- The Candle Seller (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
- In The Factory (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
- In The Garden Of The Dead (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
- Sephirah (Morris Rosenfeld Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: World Poems, Soul Poems, Madness Poems, Slavery PoemsBased on Keywords: leeches, edit, sweatshop