Migrant Sun

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

"Your Fields" is a poem featured in this book.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Your Fields

Submitted: August 02, 2019

Reads: 110

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 02, 2019



We’ve walked to your fields at dawn.
We labored in the noon-day sun.
We returned, spent from your fields at dusk.
We are a million browns
In the migrant fields,
At harvest time in America.

We’ve picked your tomatoes, cucumbers and lettuce.
We’ve picked your apples, peaches and oranges.
We’ve eaten the dust of a thousand tractors;
The dust settling on us in delicate layers
Until our pesticide sweat
Ran like a burning yellow river
Down the valley of our backs.

We’ve lain in rat infested shacks
In winter so cold our brothers and sisters
Froze dead in their sleep.
We buried them on the outskirts
Of your cemeteries;
Too poor to buy them markers.
We can no longer find them
Anywhere, but in the troubled
Darkness of our nightmares.

We’ve come to your hospitals—in desperation,
Pleading for healing of our young.
We’ve placed them on your sterile altars—
Examination tables,
Only to watch them die from neglect,
In hidden, taupe colored rooms—alone.
They died waiting for the nurses to call,
And doctors who never showed,
Who never cared,
About the poor, brown
Children who waited,
And suffered;
To die like dogs,
By the side of the road.
Our young,

A thousand,
More or less grow cold.

Your fields.

© Copyright 2020 Ramon Mesa Ledesma. All rights reserved.


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