"A people's dream died there"
In a mass grave in Tamaulipas.
Covered in a shroud of dew,
They seem to sleep, embracing.
Now they don't hear the whistle
Of the train, telling them it's time
To spend another day lying on
A speeding metal bullet under
An indifferent, foreign sun.
Now they don't shamble before
The coyote, hallucinating the sounds
Of the Pacific against the shore.
Now they know no thirst, hunger
Fear or hope. No one knows them
Either, nor in what dreams they
Clothed themselves before the
Last time they left home.
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