Saturday, May 28, 2016

The Glass Factory


In the middle of the desert
the furnace burns steady.
Globs of molten glass
fall like drops of gold.
Hissing and spinning
they take the shapes of
the moulds they are fed to.
Skylights let the sun in
through the corrugated roof,
beams bouncing off
the rivers of white opal
flowing through the factory.
He sits at the shore where
one such river finds its end.
Another cog in the machinery.
Every single day he wakes up,
ties a cloth around his head,
packs a lunch, takes a bus,
sits on a high-stool in the heat,
and looks for small flaws,
chips and chinks and bubbles,
in the glass, fragile and white.
His hands never stop,
picking a plate off the belt,
and then another and another.
His eyes, now accustomed,
scan them quickly for faults.
The good ones go into a stack.
The bad ones are discarded,
shattering at his feet, in a heap.
I wonder, if he takes any pleasure
in throwing them away?
The sound of breaking glass,
breaking the monotony of his days.

6 comments:

Ujjwala Deo Agashe said...

Beautiful.

Manka said...

Nice

teresita3998 said...

You write so beautifully!

teresita3998 said...

You write so beautifully!

teresita3998 said...

Ujjwala, your daughter write beautiful poem.

teresita3998 said...

Ujjwala, your daughter write beautiful poem.