When a poor man dies

There is one that gets up at dawn
and who works until its dark,
greets his son Miguel,
drinks a cup of coffee, then catches a bus.
His wife doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

At midday, sand a cement,
his hands will build fortresses
or beautiful houses he’ll never inhabit.
Head of the building gang, the best friend there is.
His wife doesn’t know if he’ll be back.

In the afternoon, after work, with his friends,
with firm steps he walks into town.
The shouts of his hopes are like doves in the wind,
falgs are flying and no one is sad.
His wife does not know if she’ll see him again.

Suddenly his path is cut by a shot,
the infamous bullet deadens his senses.
Who is the guilty one? Who the murderer?
A thousand voices rise in protest,
there must be a penalty.
His wife does not know that he is fallen.

The newpaper speak of his death.
Her eyes cannot believe what they see.
He was here for only twenty years.
His brothes on the construction site
shed tears of men with sorrow and rage.

What is justice when it’s a poor man who dies,
one who worked and struggled, I question the court.
The cemetary swells and nobody answers.
Or are they all dead that they see not and hear not
that they’ve killed a father,
that a man is dead.