The man outside who works for me his name is Mariano
he cuts and trims the grass for me he makes the flowers bloom
he says that he comes from a place not far from Guanajuato
itÔÇÖs two days on a bus from here a lifetime from this room
I fix his meals and talk to him in my own broken Spanish
he points at things and tells me names of things I canÔÇÖt recall
but sometimes I just canÔÇÖt but help but wonder who this man is
and yet when heÔÇÖs gone will he remember me at all?
I watch him close he works just like a piston in an engine
he only stops to take a drink and smoke a cigarette
and when the day is ended I look out side my window
and there on the horizon MarianoÔÇÖs silhouette
he sits upon a stone in a south easterly direction
I know my charts i know that he is thinking of his home
I've never been the sort to say I'm into intuition
but I swear I've seen the faces of the oneÔÇÖs he calls his own
their skin is brown as potterÔÇÖs clay their eyes void of expression
their hair is black as widowÔÇÖs dreams their dreams are all but gone
their ancient exhibitions of a sacrificial virgin
and in the sun heÔÇÖs crying from a baby being born
and they wrap around a dying flame and pray for his protection
their prayers are often answered by his letters in the mail
he sends them colored figures he cuts from strips of paper
and all his weekly wages saving nothing for himself
itÔÇÖs been a while since I've seen the face of Mariano
the border guards they came one dayand took him away
I hope that he is safe down there at home in Guanajuato
I worry though i hear thereÔÇÖs revolution everyday
