In Greece, at the Acropolis, someone tells me
It's wrong to think about the slaves
In the quarries and on the hill
That built these things--
Missing persons locked up in the marble.
How can you look at monuments
And forget the slaves?
Standing on the Acropolis,
In the yellow wind
Blowing up from Athens, I know
We all work for the man in the dark hat
And you can't see us for our labors,
Or our lives for the marble.