We bury our faces in our palms, Not mourning our sold ego and pride, Even our dead soil mour for leached farms, To paint our world green with bids and tide.
When farewells lurked our patched lips, Our armless arms waved at our fortune, Do we not think of today that leaps? There we are, in bunches for new tune.

Do we not behold our gods as they die, When we embrace the cross for hope? Think not,look not for hope in land's sky, For even the pope is slayed for a new pope.

We crisp our barns for tubers, The heaven hisses drops our hoped hope, When we fiddle with barns of two-bars, For we cry with fainted heart on slope.

Have we not yet found our old ways? Lest we remain revolutionary fools, Subjected to whites' sophisticated days, Toiling with light-tuber producing tools.