crumbs from the table have fallen so few
so not to catch an eye
reckless and thinkless and felled to the knees
to gather before before the broom
what is left amongst the spire
that is as tall as the lowest cloud you could reckon the height of
hanging on a branch here every time (though never fell so far)
from which we lift these blistered hands only to curse
the families get nothing but porridge of maize
and shacks at the end of farms
cash crops commissioned to pay of the debt
and poisoned on the job
driving the mules to death in the wheat
then leaving us follow with leather to eat
buried their sabers in the field and sharpen bayonets