Her palm is rough and soles of her feet cracked,

Her waist so stiff, yet strong,

Bending and rising beneath the sun's blows,

Yet her smiles as wide as a queen's,


Always adorned in tattered fabric 'graced with daily sweat'.

She didn't love it, but she must do it;

Waking to meet another beautiful day of 'peanut hunt'.

She has many mouths and hopes looking up to her,


Almost like a curse, she must hurt alone to give them joy.

Her labour yields much but she earns only peanuts.

Pruning, spraying, harvesting and processing all year,

Only to share at a loss with the powerful men.

She can't quit this trade though she hates it.


She does all, not to free her self,

But to grant her seeds a break from the curse;

That old foe - poverty always before her,

Tho uncertain her seeds would make her proud,

She never returns home till the day's work is done.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog