Heavy pounds of wheat curl in my arms,
Pieces fall on the muddy ground,
There goes Medvedev’s father,Kulak, and the Twam brothers,
All lopsided and dying,
Floating D-O-W-N they go,
Their names never to be known,
Stalin says a million tragedies is only a statistic,
But they all had lives and families,
Yet they died like the animals on the farm,
Whose tearful cries will never be heard,
The frozen air makes it harder to breath,
Yet I still pick up each piece of dead wheat,
With so many deceased,
It is hard to keep count,
Every week thousands of more wheat falls out of my hands,
Medvedev’s father- Kulak- the Twam brothers,

I say their names every day to remember they were once people and not the 8,345,771 person to die,
As I grow weaker I will be known as the 10,893,210 to pass,
I will never share my story,
Nor will anyone else,
We were just a fading fact in history,
With a really high number,