She, in the back, with the Spanish eyes,
Never stops the chant; never quiets,
And the old people in the lunchroom hear
But no one understands –
Dolor – means pain.

She, in the middle, with the frightened eyes,
Always trapped in a trance; always quiet,
And the old people in the lunchroom see
But no one holds her hand –
Clenched – in pain.

I, in the front, with the sad eyes,
Sometimes wonder, always wonder why –
What happened to the young people inside?
They want to come out.
But how did their embraceable selves
Leave before they did?