I pity the poor immigrant whose
strength is spent in vain
whose heaven is like ironsides
whose tears are like rain
Who eats but is not satisfied
who hears but does not see
who falls in love with wealth
itself and turns his back on me
I pity the poor immigrant who
tramples through the mud
who fills his mouth with laughing
and who fills his town with blood
whose visions in the final
end must shatter like the glass
I pity the poor immigrant
when his gladness comes to pass
Marco Giunco |
Work | Basket | Music | Words |