I’M PROUD.
I’m proud of my people, proud to be
one of them,
that great mass on society’s bottom
rung.
Those who, with coal-dust under their
nails
in their eyes, in their
lungs
claw at the earths
entrails.
Their brothers,
cement in their hair
in their mouth, in their
ears,
oil ingrained in their
fingers,
on their face.
Sisters, glistening with
sweat
midst the ceaseless noise of
machines
that throw out shirts, shoes, toys,
carpets
for other people.
Those with soil and sweat stuck to
their skin
smelling of the earth, feeding the
multitude,
grinding out their lives in a harsh
pitiless system
weighted down
with a sack load of half-dead
dreams,
sometimes brought to their
knees
by a tidal wave of despair,
never defeated,
groping in the dark to find
tomorrow,
keeping hope alive;
they amaze me.
Somehow, from somewhere
in this cold, cruel
unforgiving scheme of
things
they find love for their
children.
Not a teaspoonful, not a
cupful,
but buckets full, to bathe them
in,
to pour over them.
They seem to know
that one day this world will be
ours
and to take care of it
we will need those who have been
loved.
