Her palm is rough and soles of her feet cracked, Her waist so stiff, yet strong, Bending and rising beneath the sun's blows, Yet her smiles as wide as a queen's,
Always adorned in tattered fabric 'graced with daily sweat'. She didn't love it, but she must do it; Waking to meet another beautiful day of 'peanut hunt'. She has many mouths and hopes looking up to her, Almost like a curse, she must hurt alone to give them joy. Her labour yields much but she earns only peanuts. Pruning, spraying, harvesting and processing all year, Only to share at a loss with the powerful men. She can't quit this trade though she hates it. She does all, not to free her self, But to grant her seeds a break from the curse; That old foe - poverty always before her, Tho uncertain her seeds would make her proud, She never returns home till the day's work is done.