The man outside who works for me his name is Mariano
he cuts and trims the grass for me he makes the flowers bloom
he says that he comes from a place not far from Guanajuato
it's two days on a bus from here a lifetime from this room

I fix his meals and talk to him in my own broken Spanish
he points at things and tells me names of things I can't recall
but sometimes I just can't but help but wonder who this man is
and yet when he's gone will he remember me at all?

I watch him close he works just like a piston in an engine
he only stops to take a drink and smoke a cigarette
and when the day is ended I look out side my window
and there on the horizon Mariano's silhouette

he sits upon a stone in a south easterly direction
I know my charts i know that he is thinking of his home
I've never been the sort to say I'm into intuition
but I swear I've seen the faces of the one's he calls his own

Their skin is brown as potters clay, their eyes void of expression
Their hair is black as widow's dreams, their dreams are all but gone
They're ancient as a vision of a sacrificial virgin
Innocent as crying from a baby being born

and they wrap around a dying flame and pray for his protection
their prayers are often answered by his letters in the mail
he sends them colored figures he cuts from strips of paper
and all his weekly wages saving nothing for himself

it's been a while since I've seen the face of Mariano
the border guards they came one day and took him away
I hope that he is safe down there at home in Guanajuato
I worry though i hear there's revolution everyday