Dawn comes,
daylight glints on the world again.
The rooster king,
calls up the sleeping sun.

Across the hills
and through the fields.
Gifted from Nature's hands.
God's own morning glory,
spilled across the land.

Men appear, wearily,
with blades clutched in hands.
Women with little children,
carry strings and water cans.

Every day the same.
Watched by boss-men
with whips and horses.
Servitude,
and sugar-cane.

In the heat
of the broiling sun,
to the sound of a mournful tune,
the cane is cut and stacked,
from sun-up
to late in the afternoon.

Rising coils of smoke,
from sheds and huts
in the fading evening light.
The sound of spiritual songs
across the drowsy fields,
and sleepy whispers
bring the night.

Conversation of tomorrow,
then sleep to bring relief.
As the gently sighing wind
blows through the cane
and fills the night with sorrow.

Day will dawn and break the spell,
but bring no new delight.
And mellow hope
will disappear
with the shadows of the night.