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