We toiled, sweat dripping down our faces.
We looked up to God, hands turned up like we had been taught in catechism, we were pliable,
Like the sky we wanted to see:
Dropping God’s tears; The God of the poor in spirit(and pocket).
Farmer, keep on working; Even as your hoe meets hard ground.
You may rest under the iroko tree later, parched lips meet cool water.