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The man outside who works for me, his name is Mariano He cuts and trims the grass for me, he makes the flowers bloom He says that he comes from a place, not far from Guanajuato It's two days on a bus from here, a lifetime from this room. I fix his meals and talk to him, in my old broken Spanish He points at things and tells me names, of things I can't recall Sometimes I just can't but help, but wonder who this man is And if when he is gone, will he'll remember me at all I watch him close he works just, like a piston in an engine He only stops to take a drink, and smoke a cigarette But when the day is ended, I look outside my window There on the horizon, Mariano's silhouette He sits upon a stone, in a south-easterly direction I know my charts I know that he, is thinking of his home I've never been the sort, to say I'm in to intuition But I swear I see the faces, of the ones he calls his own Their skin is brown as potter's clay, their eyes void of expression Their hair is black as widow's dreams, their dreams are all but gone They're ancient as a vision, of a sacrificial virgin An innocent as crying, from a baby being born They hover around a dying flame, and pray for his protection Their prayers are often answered, by his letters in the mail He sends them colored figures, he cuts from strips of paper And all his weekly wages, saving nothing for himself It's been a while since I have seen the face of Mariano The border guards they came one day, and took him far away I hope that he is safe down there, at home in Guanajuato I worry though, I read there's ... revolution every ... day |
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