The soil here is hard in summer so I buried my father in a tomb of rocks, a plot behind St. Catherine's church to lay rest the gilded dream of pitiable men.
With gold found to the North Quartzburg drove out its whores, its foreigners and roughnecks. They settled this camp.
The Mexicans often staged bull and bear fights near the bar. They kept a boy entertained when there were no hangings to enjoy.
The Cantonese flooded the quarries, working for less than the Whites. My father would curse the Orientals, yet came home reeking of opium.
A group of my friends and I left to explore the creek. The Chinaman kneeled there, gleaning for gold. We mocked him and pushed him, I prodded him with my knife. He gripped his revolver and fired in the air.
The errant bullet ricocheted off a stone and grazed my leg. I ran back bawling to the town.
Mobs surround the crying Chinaman, Father clutching the noose.
Law arrived. The sheriff demanded that he be jailed and properly tried.
Gangs amassed late at night outside the jail. Father led, rope in hand, prey in his cell. Smooting lies. Tempted with tobacco leaves, the Chinese reached his arm through the bars.
The lynch mob swiftly grabbed the gleaner's exposed hand. Father wrapped the collar around his neck. The horde yanked on the rope. Chinaman dragged and choked, his brains dashed upon the wall.
Soon all the gold mines dried but that blood never did. Red still stains the jail cell wall. Father was never tried, none mourn a foreigner, but I saw guilt in his eyes. With all the riches spent, the people left the town yet I stayed to dwell here still. When Father died of drink I did not weep for him. I pray the grave unburdens his sins.
I pray that someone will remain to bury me. I pray that someone will remain.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
