To Mountain Peons

- Mustachioed axemen stir the dust of streets,

Cross rivers, and balance themselves in toil.

The gatherers of corn toil in the heated fields-

"Idols fashioned from grain,"

"Years tied into bundles."

Mezcal drips to the earthen floor,

Stone jars flooded when bronze revellers

Wheel in pattern to the dancing strings.

O the joy of machetes, swinging,

And the stone on stone, grinding breakfasts

In mountain-hidden pueblas!

Salud à usted, swinger of machete!

Ah, beber, mis compañeros, . . .

To drink, after our warmth of day-

(To defeat the lions of ashen cold

Tonight in these cold-breasted rocks

Where the seeds of dynamos are hermitted.)

F. M. Sherby