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If you've never seen the distance in an immigrants eyes |
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Then you've never seen resistance in the form of a cry |
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He decided it was time to bring the drought to an end |
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The soujourner, soul searcher from whom i descend |
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Put his life inside his pockets leavin' on a plane |
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Living long lonely nights children wife left in labor pain |
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Tirelessly trying to provide he prized dialectics to fight for the slice of a pie |
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But this life was premised on a lie instead of being promised by society |
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The nature of economy is sodomy ten generations of poverty turned to poverty |
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Later, and a third world diploma not even worth the paper its written on |
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With no elevators goin' up to the top ya'll |
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Instead its long days spent slavin over hourly wages |
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And when the clock strikes labor he savors the pages |
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Of letters sent by his kinfolk who invoke the image of what its like to have been broke through cigarette smoke |
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He tries to spin hope to dreams in close to proximity to family in his memory |
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And it is stated in between the night shifts and sleep a moment of clarity |
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He may never come home despite the familiarity of faces from his homeland who speak the same dialect |
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Fellow country women and men standin' in line to get greencards, visas, and passports |
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Barely makin' enough over half a paycheck remitted with love |
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Strangers keep staring in disgust and distrust talkin 'bout this country's just us: no justice |
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His hope's enough to oneday return to his town to join his ancestors in their burial ground |
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Almost forgot how the countryside sounds but this time around the lost are never found |
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In the distance between home and where we live |
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Its the distance between a mother and her kids and |
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Its the distance that keeps us apart and |
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Its the distance between my soul and my heart |
