The streets of Savar reeked of refuse and blood. The blood of children forced to work, the blood of drug addicts on cast aside syringes. Inside was no refuge from the smell. Black outlines ran from sunken eyes, marks of weakness dried long ago at the demand of an overlooker. Red droplets formed on dirty fingers as a needle pierced flesh. Their eyes were so cold, colder than the hearts of their taskmasters. There was a dull thump as a tiny form hit the floor. Exhaustion was almost permeable. They were trapped, physically and mentally. Mind-forged manacles bound small children to their adult tasks. Mama cannot feed me, mama is alone, I must do this for mama. The piles of branded shirts grew taller and taller, the hearts of the exploited grew more resigned. It all seemed so dark. A little girl got off her seat and ran to the aid of her collapsed friend, the tears she should have cried stopped short in the absence of abnormality. The purr of sewing machines was like a mantra, the hapless sigh of child workers ran like blood down the sweatshop walls.
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