Page:Al Que Quiere.djvu/36

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four oceans, the airs
of four skies!

Return hollow-bellied,
keen-eyed, hard!
A simple scar or two.

Little girls will come
bringing you
roses for your button-hole.

<poem> You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart!

Brother! —if we were rich we'd stick our chests out and hold our heads high!

It is dreams that have destroyed us.

There is no more pride in horses or in rein holding. We sit hunched together brooding our fate.