THEY COME

Early in the morning before the sun 
has touched 
the fields, the air is cold and dry 
and they come. 

It touches the working land 
and the tired bodies stained 
with dirt and sweat, 
the hands rough 
and battered.  Working the land 
is a ritual for some, 
a way of life, 
and they come. 

The gold they gather is worth nothing, 
only death.  It waits 
for the hands of the tired bodies 
to reach down, 
and it feels the warm hands. 
They bend down one after another. 
The sun will rise again, 
and they will come.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *

EL RIO SALADO (SALTED RIVER)

In this instrumental river 
every soul that comes 
never leaves. 

At the water's edge trees 
stand in memory of those fallen, 
now rest.  The water is impure 
from devil's urine 
as it flows to stand still. 
At the river bank 
we become beggars and drunks 
only to come back for more. 

The river with absence 
of nature fights a war 
and at the end of each battle 
the soldiers drown on a beach 
not so far away, where it all 
becomes salt.