Poem-a-day

Immigrants

^{translated from the Spanish by}^{Anthony Geist}

White valleys
left behind:
they begin to turn into
rocks,
pine trees
and eagles.
Hundreds of years on the road.
On the way
my parents died.
On the way
my children will be born.

Los immigrantes

Valles blancos
han quedado atrás:
empiezan a transformarse
en rocas,
pinos
y águilas.
Cientos de años de viaje.
En el camino
han muerto mis padres.
En el camino
nacerán mis hijos.

read the rest

David Cruz

Previous Poems

Title	Author	Date
Unmarked	Tim Seibles	10/01/2018
A September Night	George Marion McClellan	09/30/2018
The Past Is the Present	Marianne Moore	09/29/2018
now i’m bologna	José Olivarez	09/28/2018
Minneapolipstick	Rachel McKibbens	09/27/2018
Lies I Tell	Sara Borjas	09/26/2018
The Prophetess Sojourner Truth Discusses the Two Different Versions of Her Most Well-Known Speech, One Nearly Unknown and One Very Beloved Yet Mostly Untrue	Honorée Fanonne Jeffers	09/25/2018
Adrift	Bao Phi	09/24/2018
Dr. Booker T. Washington to the National Negro Business League	Joseph Seamon Cotter Sr.	09/23/2018
41 [No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,]	Gerard Manley Hopkins	09/22/2018

Title

Author

Date

Unmarked

Tim Seibles

10/01/2018