Speak Out Socialists received this poem from a friend in New Jersey.
On an afternoon when trees flaunt flowers
in a chilling wind,
I will sit waiting on a stairway
for the march to start.
We will walk through New Jersey streets
shouting defiance, shouting power,
mourning the workers who have died
since last we marched.
In the city around us,
restaurant kitchens will char cooks’ fingers,
and somewhere on Route 1,
a truck driver will crash and die,
his heart burst by the stress
of his 18 hour days.
This has been the way for centuries.
This has been their way for centuries.
Huelga! Shut it down!
Shut it down!
