It is Ponnaiyar
Flowing to the Bay Bengal
and carries all dire rumour
Make everything fine and fertile!

This is our sprawling land
Our father painted on it with their soul and blood,

There was a time,
When their crop field remain pour.....  
without our slog.....

Over the years .......
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar......

Now they don’t called us
to transplant their paddy ..

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their paddy....

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their Sugarcane......

Now they love their machine,

Over the years ....
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar.......

My mother once asked ‘who develop machine?’
I replied, ‘Scientist ‘..........
She said ‘they are selfish’.............

Over the years
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar..........

Now we travel around,
and hunt for  living..............

Ponnaiyar still flowing to the Bay of Bengal
and caries the memo of our grief and struggle.....