The Lady Outside of Bengladesh

There’s an old lady living in a village right outside of Bangladesh I was told her gentle hands were the ones that made my purse (For which the five dollars I was paying had been part of a fair trade.) If I could one day share a meal with her and over food exchange our stories I would ask her countless questions of her life within such world. How do you spend your waking hours? What are your thoughts during the day? What do you think of those outside your village or of the one who sold your purse? What makes you suffer? What makes you happy? Who do you love? Who do you dismay? I have so many questions for the one who made my purse I come from a faraway village where we have traded labor for machines Where the craft has been replaced by assembly lines to satisfy the market needs I wish I could meet the lady who must compete with factories Do you struggle day to day? Do you live your life in peace? Do you care that everyday I flaunt your labor on my shoulder? I want to know her feelings Her thoughts and her concerns Ask her what she dreams of And if her reality is far from them There’s an old lady living in a village right outside of Bangladesh I was told her gentle hands were the ones that made my purse (But are the pieces of paper she received part of a just and fair exchange?)