the working immigrant

i am me old, frigid..some days young.. prisoned and free. Greyed vision for me A tanned skinned for you For this is all you see. How do you see me? A father, a husband, a laborer no ...the truth is none of these. I am rare, different and beautiful For you can find no one like me. I am the physical defintion of a soul so unusual. so unique Your work is never over bearing as you stand to the side and watch confused, disgusted maybe staring.... You have come to my land..some have ruined it soil...its meaning...its way because most you want & most of you demand When we go, who will you turn to? Yourselves i suppose. I stand for my people mi gente. on the biggest mountains the tallest steeples. you will either lose or regret. Some may forgive...but never forget for i am the working immirgrant vigilant, infinite & innocent