CONSTRUCTION WORKER
How could a construction worker
Understand that a brick was worth more than a loaf of bread?
Bricks, he piled up, with a shovel, cement, and a square
As for bread, he ate it
But if he had to eat a brick...
And so the worker went on
With sweat and cement
Building a house here
Ahead, an apartment
A barracks, a prison
A prison where he would suffer
Had he not, at times, been a construction worker.
But he did not know
This extraordinary fact:
The worker makes the thing
The thing makes the worker
So one day
At the table, when cutting the bread,
He was struck by sudden emotion
And astonished, he realized
That everything on the table, bottle, plate, knife,
He was the one who made them
House, city, nation
Everything that existed was made by him
A worker who knew how to do his job.
It was in the moment of understanding
In that solitary instant
That as his construction grew
So did the worker.
And a new fact was seen
That amazed everyone:
What the worker said,
Another worker listened.
He noticed that his lunchbox was the large plate's dish
That his dark beer was the boss's whiskey
That his work overalls were the boss's suit
That the shack where he lived was the boss's mansion
That his two wandering feet were the boss's wheels
That the hardness of his day, his immense fatigue
Was the boss's friendly night
The worker saw the houses
And their structures
He saw things, objects
Products, manufactures
He saw all that he made
The boss's profit
And in everything he saw
Mysteriously, there was
The mark of his hand.
And the worker said: No!
Madness, the boss shouted
Don't you see everything I give you?
Lie! Said the worker:
You cannot give me what is mine.
