Dirt cover my body, the amount of food I eat cover my hand,
The little cloth I have falls off my stick of a body
It all I know this life of poverty
I am one of a child of nine siblings
When I sleep at night in my little bed of hay.
I dream of far off place, of a life greater then my own life now.
Even thought we all work in the field day and night,
we go to bed hungry and thirsty for food.
When I see the children go to school
my eyes are hungry for a change to learn to read and write.
In the western country they all call us poor.
By Davia Richards