Sculpture on the assembly line
Go straight along the assembly line.
I saw my youth.
Flowing like blood.
Motherboard, shrapnel, iron box ... a flash.
No one will help me with the job at hand.
Fortunately, the station where I work was given to me
Hands are like machines.
Tirelessly, rob, rob, rob.
Until your hands are in full bloom.
Cocoon, oozing injury
I never found out.
I'm on my own.
Ancient sculpture
20 1 1-6- 12
life
Indulge in working life
There is a sense of loneliness growing between my eyebrows.
Keep the machine running day and night.
In the car accident
One hundred thousand wage earners
One hundred thousand working girls
Put one's best youth
On the assembly line, buried by hand
The master said
This is a high-speed machine, and that is a universal machine.
This is the carrier and that is the fixture.
But what I saw
It's all cold
The line leader said that they all came out to work.
Nobody forced you.
I am bound by this sentence.
On the column of shame of memory
Count
The years that can't go back.
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Workshop, my youth stays here.
Who is the incandescent lamp lit for?
Next to the assembly line, thousands of migrant workers lined up.
Hurry up, hurry up
Standing among them, I heard the urgent urging of the leaders of the bank.
No wonder who will come to the workshop.
The only choice is to obey.
Flow, flow
Matter flows with my blood.
The left hand is used for day shift and the right hand is used for night shift.
Calluses grow day and night.
Ah, the workshop, my youth is stuck here.
I looked at it in your arms.
Polishing, stamping, polishing and shaping day and night.
Finally, get a few hungry, the so-called salary.
I heard that work and life are a little tired.
It flows through the blood vessels and finally reaches the tip of the pen.
Rooted in paper
This passage can only be read by the hearts of migrant workers.
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