Dust am I, to dust I cling;
A rustic born, my life is one
Eternal strife and endless toil,
And endless woe… till life is gone.
I plough, I sow, I labour on,
With muscles strained, in sun and rain.
I scarce can live on what I earn,
And tired and hungry I remain.
The owner of the land torments me;
Even the tiny ant’s my foe.
For townsfolk, priests and native country
In blood-like sweat I plough and sow…
How long, O God, this endless grind,
This life of sorrow and of toil?
Alas! I fear that death alone
Will bring me rest within this soil!
