COFFIN-MAKERS WORK SO MUCH IN MY COUNTRY Poem by Robinson Quintero

All the day long
on workdays or holidays
they restlessly
measure
draw lines
cut

Not minding for whom
not minding if it's their own
some coffins
smooth
others
rough

Like serfs under the orders
of the severest Lord
they assemble
paint
and shine
fast

At night we hear
their planes smoothing
one plank after another
their hammers pressing
one nail
after another

Their hands full of dust
their faces dirty with sawdust
they sing:
Are there more up there?
Are there more
down here?

Day and night they work
the coffin-makers
in my country