We’re the war-bred savages, organic crop machines, temperamental windmills with the face of peons.
We’re the stupid good-job nods with overbites and no wage requirements.
We’re the new world tragedy, the dragged threads of mestizo legend.
We got killed everywhere in every way by name by flesh and most of all, by future.
We’re the left out cousins with the prieta mothers and burnt out fathers.
We’re the things they think we forgot. We’re the things they hope we forget.
We’re the silent cries, the purple skies.