i am...
the woodcutter,
cutting and stacking wood,
for the fire i'll never know.
i am the taste
of rain drenched leaves,
and the silence just after.
i am the soot
on the miners face,
his only mark of identity.
i am the black man,
who knowing his journey well,
having pride in his roots,
steps beyond bitterness.
i am the woman,
forced to sleep in the closet,
hands worn by the broom...
who finally steps free.
i am the poor man,
with tired calloused hands,
his jaw firmly set,
he's had all he's going to take.
i am the child,
who never knew his father,
whose mother worked two shifts,
so he could go to school.
i am the outcast,
condemned by the church,
shunned by his neighbors,
because he is different.
i am the echo,
of your guilt and your need,
the shout of your actions.
the cry of hunger in your sleep!
so you are the echo of the ego! there is nothing wrong in working, but people should not suffer! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The cry of hunger in your sleep, a great line, and a true line. Many young children go to bed hungry not even knowing if they will be eating the next day. A great poem.