Stitch by stitch,
fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms,
eyes strained, backs bent,
breath laced with dust and silence.
A label whispers luxury,
a name stitched in gold,
but behind the seams,
a child traces hunger with trembling hands.
The clock does not sleep,
nor do the hands that sew,
woven into fabric priced in dollars,
while wages shrink to cents.
Promises drape the storefronts,
Ethical. Sustainable. Fair.
But behind factory doors,
needles pierce more than cloth.
Somewhere, a thread unravels,
and a name is lost in the weave,
a worker, a mother, a child.
Their voices fade,
but the machines never stop.
