The working man has all but sold
The last drop of his blood,
A mountain beckons and so a sea
Either one is his bounty.
The day's work done, the prayer thanks
Removes himself from the sweat
Market faces fill the place
And noise subdues as humming bees.
At other days he would
Cannons roar and rifles crack
And like a cat he would have raised
His cold nose to sniff the air.
Danger runs along the spine
But this too is a dreamy part,
When forces render people maimed,
In silence struggles a sanity.
At other days a man would
A writhing lump, a cursing flesh
A barrel smokes, a hand is cold
And all's still but the gushing red,
The dusty face is equaled only by
The soothing cool of a sick man's hall
While nothing more is to be done:
Land law peeks through gunholes, stunned!