PlacidGuy

Thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my short story. Our species seems determined to forget the lessons of the past.

I Pity the Poor Immigrant, music and lyrics by Bob Dylan, 1967 I pity the poor immigrant Who tramples through the mud Who fills his mouth with laughing And who builds his town with blood Whose visions in the final end Must shatter like the glass I pity the poor immigrant When his gladness comes to pass - Walking Out of Hungary - László left Hungary with nothing but the rhyth

Escaping the crushing poverty of 19th-century Hungary, László endures a harrowing journey to the industrial heart of Huntington, Indiana, where his existence is defined by the relentless rhythm of factory machinery and deep solitude. It is only in the autumn of his life that he finds an unexpected sanctuary in the arms of András, a fellow immigrant with whom he builds a quiet, tender domesticity hidden within their bustling ethnic enclave. But as the two men pour their life savings into lifting up the community around them, the very neighbors they supported turn against them..