By Bai T. Moore
The nation cannot rise above
The pains of common masses
Whose devotion and the country’s love
Is rooted in the simple homes
Of bamboo mats and mud
Roofed with grass and raffia palm
The rich black dirt entwined with streams
That nourish paddy fields with crops
Which offer tho what scanty means
Will keep the hearth aglow.
The rich who kick the dust and flee
When circumstances pinch the pride
Many go where wealth can make them free,
But not that humble wretch who stays
And tills the soil from dawn to dusk
Throughout his humble days.
I mean the man who loves the land
Who worries when the trouble clouds
Are blowing over his country,
And who with a willing heart and hand
Will share his burden for the flag.
The strength of the nation lies with him.