On your wrinkled face

Is dancing a moon beam

Trickled from a hole of our

Thatched roof

As if the Lord is caressing

Your pains,

Stored in every fold of your exhausted face…

O mother,

When shall your perpetual strife come to an end?

Working on the farms

And tending the cattle

Under the torrential rains or burning heat

With circumstances ravaging

Your mighty dreams

Those you have seen in me

And in your buried ambitions!