The Voice Of The Migrant

by Samuel De Lemos

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During the heat of the day,
I’m bent over with no shade.
My hands are dry and hot.
Picking grapes, I’m so distraught.

I feel I’m dying.

By the end of the day I don’t
have enough to buy a meal.
There’s not a lot that I got
out of this awful deal.

I’m not lying.

I came to get ahead
I ended up here instead.
Working the vines
for someone else’s wine.

The rich are always buying.

I need to make it through
these blazing summer days.
My family will be a wreak,
if I don’t bring home a paycheck.

My heart is troubled and sighing.