Gauley Bridge is a good town for Negroes, they let us stand around, they let us stand
around on the sidewalks if we're black or brown.
Vanetta's over the trestle, and that's our town.
The hill makes breathing slow, slow breathing after you row the river,
and the graveyard's on the hill, cold in the springtime blow,
the graveyard's up on high, and the town is down below.
Did you ever bury thirty-five men in a place in back of your house,
thirty-five tunnel workers the doctors didn't attend,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem