The Voice Of The Migrant

by Samuel De Lemos


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.