Victims

Victims I Pity you For what you had to do for what desperation, poverty and despair drove you to. What lack of education, dangerous situations and complex cross-cultural relations awoke in you. You, are the victims far more that we. No matter what to us you do. We, suspected all along it was you. But you didn't think not to make it so obviously true? Muddy footprints, dirty dishes in the sink as we had taught you to do, you even swept up the glass and took things hidden in places that only you knew! Calling cards left as clear as if with stroke of a pen, would have taken more effort for us, to figure out who it had been.. And to think of this when, we were all seated around this same table, with cabrito saying grace back then was ludicrous. That three later years you'd be kicking in the doors to steal from the house you were raised. The notion still feels ridiculous. Did you do it to set the record strait? Exact revenge? Or, as I speculate To build your resume to get in with the local gang. Whatever your motives the cold hard truth I fear, is that for you, there's no turning back from here. From what you've now created for yourselves, We are powerless to help. There's only the road ahead, and the hands of it waiting to be dealt. And the truth of it stings, as the letter that burnt William Sycamore's hand saying that his sons were dead. Our loss is the same. Only not in the things from us you stole, but to know that we've lost you to the turbulence, and violence of nuestra Mexico.