Imagine! Selling your soul,
And your spouse and all those.
Who come after you and all
Those who come after them
To eternal slavery.
With an impression of your thumb.
And after that is done, there are
Only opaque glass doors between
The deathless feudal master,
And the bonded laborer
Who slips through them and then
Slips right back through the myth
Of voicelessness, in nightmares,
Sweating on serrated soil,
He can never call his own
And though the subaltern now,
Can speak, he prays that all
Glass doors would turn transparent once.