The Sufferings of the Dumb

With the dust whirling round the wheel, The walls of throat seeming to seal, In the sun bleached roads of soil- Ran the feet of the bulls faster with toil. Their shoulders hath blackened in time's course, The wooden bar to them like a saw's coarse, The ribs out of hunger come out as though- To satisfy themselves with the rays of the yellow bow. I know not and nor does the owner; Since when these poor chaps has turned to labourers, And from whence time's sharp wheel acted sharper to their neck; Let alone to miserable dreams which it did wreck. They look at the soil unhindered by any sound - The sufferings of the blunt labour is the only that's through them is found. Were we made humans by our maker - For this day to turn from cruel to crueler- To treat the dumb in a way as this- By feeling of ours which we call to be the deepest feels?