//My edited entry titled : Luminosity // to be submitted on Aug. 31, 2013 at the site


The air is a lot clearer in America, men work in quarries, in a fast pace, breaking rock,   

Are you one of them? Ready or not for such work, half killing, toxic or non, what can you do?                                                                                                                                                      

First, you have to break rock or pick oakum before the Guardians' clock.                         

Thing is, you can get used to almost anything that everybody just waits for things to change or go to.

The hundreds of others, got mad, they rioted and some were just silent, wherever you are, here it's like that too,

You can feel it in the air, something could go off, any minute and sometimes,                     you just see it in the eyes,

Of all people, you who sees, just act blind and chooses to act one of them as spies,

The shop round the corner's got nothing but empty jars in the window and a mug of buttermilk on the shelf,

A colleague went there with me and I wrote her name out in the dust and I don't mean to say this, but one must learn to help oneself.

I mean, some helps some bitter cold, most who had nothing but holey shawls to wrap round themselves, but still they stood out there,

And cheered so loud, it most shook the grey from the sky, though others said money would have been better.

And not everyone's on the Union side, Some got together and said we still support and fight to end slavery,

But others say different, out on the streets, who don't much care, to tell the truth honestly, is there such one filled with such bravery?

We just want it to end. Today it was sunny at last. After such rain! It just pelted down and the clouds yesterday were black, whipping across the city

One came out with a fiddle and a pennywhistle out on the ground for the near change.

Asked, Who will rise up for me against the evildoers? Who will stand up for me against the workers of iniquity?

There was still the wind and the cold sun was shining, The breeze mussed the hair on top of his head so strange.

In a weird scene, his voice kind of thin, but pretty, It got too brisk,

Suddenly unafraid to echo out his words, unhesitant for the risk.

You know, he doesn't have much time left, just him standing on his table, but on it, is someone much heavier

He'd gone up to the moors, to the moor,  And he'd brought back a hawthorn branch in full bloom, There he was on his table.

Like the white blossoms like cotton fluff, All delicate and resting there, while the other is in a pint jar full of water

And there’s nothing left more to say or to prove, but to end one's historical myth or fable coz he's someone whose not even capable



The End

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