Row After Row

By: Wendy Gutierrez

 

I step into the ruined street,

Where wealth of labor does not reach.

Sown in every face I meet,

Exhausted eyes, tears in each.

 

Every bit of fertile soil,

Every fruit in every neat row,

Every inch touched by their toil,

Echos the pain of those below.

 

How the harvests fill bellies high

Every landowner’s pockets lined, 

And the blood of workers lie

On the earth with bodies dried.

 

From these adjacent rows they hear

Whirling bills in wealthy hands

In Wonderful homes so dear

Far from the dead that work their lands.