Skeletons of Quinto

I worked the fields my father worked From dawn until setting sun My calloused hands and wind-burned face Have marked me as a man Who has no voice, no rights, no hope No place to call his own And the skeletons of Quinto call me home The silver tentacles of the moon’s rays caught me The deathly silence of the mountains chill me to the bone And the skeletons of Quinto call me home If I lived to be a hundred, I won’t know me Papa’s plight The cruelty of the master’s whip The horrors of the night He braved them all and stood his ground The bravest ever known And the skeletons of Quinto call me home I know that somehow, in the world, The workers must be free The toil and sweat, and tyranny, the fascist jeu d’esprit Will only serve to keep us down, and make the bourgeoisie And the skeletons of Quinto call me home

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