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.