Seeds are planted in barren soil
by rough tattered hands,
while dreaming of outgrowing
This foreign land
Each drop of blood, each bead of sweat, each fallen tear
is inherited by the soil…
Inherited by the next generation
and carried like heavy straw on a mule’s back
The soil weeps
simultaneously with the rain
that seeps into seeds
somehow absorbing the tradition of our people
Seeds begin to germinate,
rising from a sunken place
Emerging from inferior status
and taking their rightful place
A garden grows in the dark soil
deeply rooted inside of us
Bearing fruitful offspring
that blossom into beautiful
Kings and Queens
Harvest the fruit of your
labor and preserve your fertile soil,
cultivating food for thought
Feeding the entire village
Through your garden
