The Migrant
Who are those wretched people
That toil out in the countryside?
I see them stooping near the earth
Where do they all reside?
There are also little girls and boys
That stroll behind the women.
They clasp dirty broken toys
Why are they not in school?
Who are these common people
That work from dawn to dusk?
I wonder where they sleep at night
And where they put their trust.
They eat their meals under a tree
Where a mother holds her child.
See that infant on her knee?
That child my friend was me.
Copyright © Lunita Blanca | Year Posted 2017
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