Her palm is rough and soles of her feet cracked,
Her waist so stiff, yet strong,
Bending and rising beneath the sun's blows,
Yet her smiles as wide as a queen's,

Always adorned in tattered fabric 'graced with daily sweat'.
She didn't love it, but she must do it;
Waking to meet another beautiful day of 'peanut hunt'.
She has many mouths and hopes looking up to her,

Almost like a curse, she must hurt alone to give them joy.
Her labour yields much but she earns only peanuts.
Pruning, spraying, harvesting and processing all year,
Only to share at a loss with the powerful men.
She can't quit this trade though she hates it.

She does all, not to free her self,
But to grant her seeds a break from the curse;
That old foe - poverty always before her,
Tho uncertain her seeds would make her proud,
She never returns home till the day's work is done.