watching caravans of immigrants

i see new blood on the early winter snow
and lost souls
looking for a better path to follow.
i can't speak the tongue!
am i simply too young
or willfully old?
with my poisoned lungs, perhaps i'm the spy in from the cold,
in a country of all things
constantly bought and sold,
watching caravans of immigrants bringing their young children and tiny sprigs of hope:
not tattooed criminals with illegal bags of dope,
climbing the high wire, scaling the border wall,
seeking answers before their fall,
much like another group once before
seeking justice from shore to shining shore
but the native Indians are mostly dead:
the buffalo soldiers took their land and their horses and i can't remember
what the Great White Father said.
those words are on a page but i can't find the history book!
millions of eyes are searching but where exactly should they look?
a young man is swimming across the Rio Grande river;
in the heat of summer i can see him shiver.