I weep for my dead children. Guido. Franziska. And Edgar.
I know it would be easier for everyone if I would stop, somehow, and move on. But I cannot.
The children of the workers die, too. Every day. They starve to death – slowly – when their parents are forced out of work by machines. Or they die of hideous and painful diseases brought on by chronic malnourishment and overwork in inhuman conditions. They are forced into the factories or the mines or the fields – where they die at the hands of unthinking machinery – or from the explosions that rip through the mines daily. They die at home, as well, sedated with opium, while their mothers stand in the mills, the milk dripping from their breasts.
I wonder every day, every moment of every day: how many children will be sacrificed before the revolution comes?
[From Yours, In Struggle.]
© Elizabeth Anne French 2017