On the mud flats of Padma Delta where the mighty Ganges slides into the Bay of Bengal ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers, container ships from Panama passenger liners, and cargo ships from Zanzibar North Sea fishing boats research vessels and mother ships anything that floats each one has made its final trip.
The people of Sitakunda come marching, ants across the slippery surface of diesel sand to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches hammers and brute strength wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts breaching beams and deck splitting welded seams until the hulls are gutted ribbed struts broken down and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit they scour and empty right down to the core.
Bit by bit they carry ***** to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling giant stock pots stewing goodness in a broth but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride lurching, lifting with the tide rolling, dangerous still collapsing, with groaning creak to maim, to crush and **** the daring, the slow and the weak.