The Seamstresses
A gift to the Armenian seamstresses of Paris
By the time the first glimmers of sunlight start rising,
They are already sitting at their machines,
Sewing without interruption until the light fades into
The bosom of the blessed night and the torpor of sleep comes.
Orders are completed quickly, and the work must be neat and
Handed over to the boss. Or else there will be nothing the next day,
And the fangs of deprivation look vicious
From behind the dark curtain of misery.
Their overlords, those scoundrels, want meticulous work.
Under the ferocious lashes of exploitation,
The seamstress—at times resisting the fatigue of exertion, at times yielding to it—
Trembles as she weighs her conscience against her bread.
In a civilized city, at a grand table,
These women are slaves who toil all day long,
As their lives drip away drop by drop
Like cheap elixirs of life in goblets of debauchery and decadence…
Sometimes old women fending for themselves, their hands already leathery,
Sometimes widows out of luck, confounded by life,
And sometimes even young women, full of hopes and dreams still burning bright;
They all toss their days into deprivation…
Sacred work becomes a soul-sucking demon,
From whom these drained at times optionless women make every effort to flee.
But he has them caught in his clutches, the clutches of daily life,
Where flights of desire are enslaved against their will…
Whenever I see the boundless light in your eyes,
Light that grows dim and vanishes in exchange for some measly bread each day,
Oh, my sisters, my heart bleeds silently in my chest.
I yearn to take away the exhaustion that weighs heavy on your shoulders.
I clench my fists and grit my teeth;
A rush of hatred and vengeance rips through my soul…
Ah, fill me up! Fill me up with your torment.
May the sacred flame of the struggle against exploitation never flicker out…
6 July, 1934
Paris
