We are the nothings you walk past.
Your lowest and least,
we live in the margins of your power.
Expendable, we fight your many wars.
Your triumphs we pay for,
but have none.
Unheeded and unnamed,
we make your schemes come true.
Every ton and inch and cubic yard and chisel-cut
of every building you command,
is ours.
Every furrow ploughed and filled with seed
is ours.
Your wealth-producing factories;
your cities -
ours!
Day in, day out, we do your work and will.
We pipe the water that you need from reservoir to tap;
we stitch the clothes that cover up your nakedness;
we bake the bread (and cake) you eat.
We are your numerous and essential kin.
Suffering most, we learn most.
Our slave-songs make symphonies;
our longings, creeds.
We dig your graves.
http://www.inpressbooks.co.uk/granny_albyns_complaint_betteridge_david_i019634.aspx
