Who walked through fog and
curtains of cinders, thinking of
the soft thighs behind cheap printed dresses,
Beer and frying onions
talking about all the wise ways of the
shore, the cards and dice, the smoke and growl
joked about things they couldn't
understand like pussy and God,?
Who forgot how to ask for bread and salt
in their native tongue, shedding the cadence and
words of their departed lands,
incomprehensible to their parents and
unknown to the dirt they left behind?
Who were the ones that didn't wait
to be given permission to get a leg up, or
over and just start some shit
if the deal wasn't right?
who got bloody hands from unforgiving steel
and canvas straps, but kept up the pace
not sleeping or crying
?
-- It was them, it was us
They were who we are now
and we might hear them as we
walk by drunk with the night
past the world that they
raised up that turned to rust,
a whisper dry as dust,
"Get up, it's time to work
wake up, it's getting late"
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