Valley Forge Poem

I march through the valley

Of white sleet and brown filth

Without stockings or shoes

My blistered feet aching with desire

I march opened toed

With the rest of these farmers

With my brothers and foreigners

My feet burning with great necessity

I march through the cloud of grapeshot

Screams and silence

Without a uniform

My feet warm with fallen blood

I march to face the king

To tell it to his face

That we may be just peasants

These farmers are free

Shoot us with your bullets

Hit us with your cannonades

Spill our bodily fluid on the ice below

May our feet turn black with cold

I march for my children

I march for my independence

I march for the world

May I live free

Or die

for