On a spice plantation in India,
it echoes through the cashew trees. The song
that slowly changes, the song they all sing.
The same song they sing on the Beaufort docks,
while mending their empty shrimp nets. The song
that sharply rises, the song they all sing.
And on a coffee farm in New Guinea,
among the hog hands of Carolina,
in the California vineyards, the song.
A somber hymnal, the song they all sing.
How can it be that men who work the earth,
from distant nations, alien cultures,
all sing the song? In their own languages,
yet still, the same song. The song they all sing.
The drought is too long, the rains are too short,
the frost too early, the spring comes to late,
and no one remembers a time before,
when they could not predict changing seasons.
And the ones who see sing a song. The song
for a broken world, the song they all sing.