The raw, cruel ball of burning flame
Beats upon my blistered back.
The salty sweat that drips down my brow
Is welcomed by my dry cracked tongue.
Upon these fields of dirt and crop,
I slave my life away.
For hours I dig and hoe and reap
To give my children a better way.
Arriving home, I look and see
A poor sick family dependent on me.
Their dim, bleak life shines through their eyes
Reflecting what they see in mine.
This California life is gruesome
Being different and foreign and poor.
I trade aching joints and dust-filled lungs
For less than the minimum income.
It is this job I choose to do
To teach me to be grateful
For all that I achieve in life
Is a reason to be hopeful.