Hayden Carruth

“<p>…. My hands<br />
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.<br />
I think of those who have done slave labor,</p>
<p>less able and less well prepared than I.<br />
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,<br />
her father in the camps of Moldavia</p>
<p>and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers<br />
herded to the gaunt fields of torture….</p>
<p>… And I stand up high<br />
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say</p>
<p>woe to you, watch out<br />
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women<br />
to the fields where they can only die.</p>