I sit here with my lamp light shining
and pen held in my hand
And think back in the old days
where writing instruments were banned.
I look over at my mother’s wearied face
And see her harsh life bear full trace:
My mother works both day and night
and ever since her youth
She’s worked a very painful trade,
and by God that is the truth.
She’s lived a life of blistered, burned and bruised hands
just to make some worthless gold,
She loves the food but not the work
and knows it’s not just twofold.
Just like her mother before her
who still works to death,
Trying to make some measly money
is all that keeps her breath.
Apologies for not following you and your trade
But I’d rather keep my hands blisterless and burnless I’m afraid.
So I sit here with my lamp light shining
and pen held in my hand,
Thinking that blots of paper will
turn to worthwhile notes for this land,
And with this ink I will live by my pen
And hopefully I’ll see you smiling at me then.
30 December 2009