At first light in the morning, His daily sign. He's aware To wake up in time. Too many things going on here To unconcern their softly growing And their gently dance. Standing on his feet, His very best tools: his bare hands And all the time. Son of ancient lands, And keeper of light. He wrote his own rules With wood in the fire. Taking what is his With rightful demand. Every year The harvest will come with new seeds. The man does still have what he needs. He is the blow from the mountain. He is the drop in the flower. He is the moon and sun. He feels the soil. He feeds the mother. He carries on and no rest until The light goes down. Standing on his feet His very best tools: His bare hands And all the time.