I am afraid, again, always.
Like an invisible weight
I do not see the day
Will my heart live free?

A rose amidst the gravel
The heat overcomes me
I drank to his path
And saw all the tombs

(Ancient Greek poem (personal translation))

International Workers Day, May 1st

What work? It’s not here yet!  But it won’t be long, because the heat arrives, then the rains; someone will put me to work, that’s certain.

A man in a suit and tie, big gold-tinted glasses, a watch with no numbers, came to see us this morning, me and my three brothers. Fifteen hundred dollars to clean away rubble for him. That would give us $45 US a day each, because his $1500 are Haitian dollars. Seventy-five hundred gourdes, it’s not all that much to sweat my life away. But we had said we would do it; the man with the gold glasses wouldn’t come there alone, he would not want to end up getting dirty.

I do not know the end of this story or whether there is one, but I know today that Workers Day in Haiti is not for everyone to celebrate.