Fields of Dirt and Crop

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.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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