End of the Day

Walking up the hill covered in snow my footprints discolor the pure, white snow and leave it

dirty, something of a disgrace I’m sure to nature.

Walking up the hill, I look around me as I see others leaving the factory, wages in their pockets or tin boxes of only 5 cents.

End of the Day

Walking up the hill, I think of all the ugly houses lining the road, celebrating our victory march of poverty and despair and ruin.

Walking up the hill, I see other haggard faces with coal and dust etched into their wrinkles greet their families and silently tell their wives that there’s no more money for food.

Walking up the hill, my shadow is slowly illuminated by the shy sun that is trying to peak out from behind the salt and pepper colored clouds

Walking up the hill, I think of my own family and what I will tell them when I get home,

things like sorrow and pain turned into my own gain.

Stopping at the top of the hill, I pray for freedom and the end of the day.