The day dawned fresh, flowers in the air
It was a day of rest
For those who toil under the sun, amidst the hay,
Watering the roots of society, wiping our paths clean
Those whose hands are rough with the strength of hard-earned money
Honest money
And yet, as always I toil- the dishes lay unwashed, they say
What toil have you got today?
No clothes for you to clean, no sheets to dry,
You write poems, yes, but those are dreams, my child,
Dreams that are a rug below, what we can extract from your blood
The iron in your veins is worth a million,
There is no holiday, for we don’t ask for much,
Just sweat and blood, and for you to wipe our tears dry-
Except we will make you wipe them while you bleed on the floor, exhasuted,
Till your tears join the fray,
So that we can mock your weakness, as always.
It’s just what family does, labour away, mi amour,
No holidays for you- for what you do, isn’t work,
No, sir.
It’s just love.
