I die poor, but in my land,
beneath a sky that’s calm and grand.
My hands are buried deep in clay,
yet faith has lit my final day.
I did what little I could do,
though hunger shared my table too.
To be a stone, there down below,
the base from which true meanings grow.
On broken roads, in dust and pain,
our children grow with dreams in vain.
And bread’s like gold, so hard to find,
in homes where winter bites the mind.
But I don’t bow, I don’t give in,
though I have naught, I hold within
a boundless love, without compare —
for this poor land, still mine to bear.
They fill our ears with empty lies,
and smile with soft deceitful eyes,
yet leave us cold beneath their theft,
our hearts in chains, our hopes bereft.
They steal the last of what we own,
but comes the hour, it’s carved in stone —
no chain can last forever long,
against a people fierce and strong.
It’s hard… yet we have no other ground,
no other mother to be found.
And if we dream of life anew,
a land reborn, both proud and true,
then brothers, now’s the time to stand,
to cleanse the soul of this poor land.
Let’s pull the thieves from gilded thrones,
and build our future with our bones.
Let’s stop our waiting, eyes to skies,
for saints or miracles to rise.
Each of us, no matter small,
must place a drop to strengthen all.
Not walls — but roots, foundations true,
so we’re not lions without a clue,
but honest men, upright and clear,
with word and heart both proud, sincere.
And if I die, I’ll go in peace,
my suffering at last released.
I die poor, yet unafraid,
beneath my homeland’s sky I’ve stayed.
And I will carry, as a flame,
the dream of cleaner soil and name —
a land I’ve loved, but never shamed.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
I die poor, but in my land,
beneath a sky that’s calm and grand.
My hands are buried deep in clay,
yet faith has lit my final day.
I did what little I could do,
though hunger shared my table too.
To be a stone, there down below,
the base from which true meanings grow.
On broken roads, in dust and pain,
our children grow with dreams in vain.
And bread’s like gold, so hard to find,
in homes where winter bites the mind.
But I don’t bow, I don’t give in,
though I have naught, I hold within
a boundless love, without compare —
for this poor land, still mine to bear.
They fill our ears with empty lies,
and smile with soft deceitful eyes,
yet leave us cold beneath their theft,
our hearts in chains, our hopes bereft.
They steal the last of what we own,
but comes the hour, it’s carved in stone —
no chain can last forever long,
against a people fierce and strong.
It’s hard… yet we have no other ground,
no other mother to be found.
And if we dream of life anew,
a land reborn, both proud and true,
then brothers, now’s the time to stand,
to cleanse the soul of this poor land.
Let’s pull the thieves from gilded thrones,
and build our future with our bones.
Let’s stop our waiting, eyes to skies,
for saints or miracles to rise.
Each of us, no matter small,
must place a drop to strengthen all.
Not walls — but roots, foundations true,
so we’re not lions without a clue,
but honest men, upright and clear,
with word and heart both proud, sincere.
And if I die, I’ll go in peace,
my suffering at last released.
I die poor, yet unafraid,
beneath my homeland’s sky I’ve stayed.
And I will carry, as a flame,
the dream of cleaner soil and name —
a land I’ve loved, but never shamed.
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