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The lektor of Ybor whose job migrated Norte For pennies from each worker on the floor Reads and calms dispute, settles dif'rences, Fills his pockets on prose and news; reads Classics and lesser romances of maidens Trapped but saved by grace; Reading, taught The minds whose hands stained ocher hues (Like henna in the orient) rolled five-cent cigars. Thank God, he'd learned to read. Then Holobek The party line from Newyork into sunny clime Through Lektor who processed and passed It on and organized strikes for better pay Against bosses permitting such travesty-- Allow them learn amid their toil and, Learnéd, pass factory gates into broader Lives. For pay and hours won, they lost The rollers' benefit to learn. Lektor For novel rights surrendered all. Tonight 'mid neon lights in shabby Corners of Newyork or Camelot Out west without pay he reads but No one hears; he sits in silence with TVset Romance; he learns from sons of sons who ask, "What have you done but teach us gringo ways"; He listens so lessons learned by sons who pass And hear them not on separate ways To city streets unlearned, unskilled. Who would have died for this Now wishes that he had. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact JOHN HORVÁTH JR) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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