I will not be remembered,
not in the history classes
or in the breath
that fogs rose colored glasses
when widows weep at dawn.
My people were never down trodden
by any but the rich,
so it’s fitting to not be noticed now
as mobs stamp deep my toil
into the land my Grandfather had worked
’till he was simply dead.
To all I wish the best,
but still, I rise like crops
or little golden flower heads
found bowed to feet
with petals falling as teardrops…
Knowing these divisions
will lead to darkness beyond the hate.
