We do not frown, this hill will be called home
Our queen, we will give our lives
We are wise as our maker made us
Our home is this hill
Its warmth makes chill.
In time surveyors broke it down
They destroyed our sanctuary
Dismantling its sacredness
The pieces scattered all around the floor
We still pick up our labour
Our not-respected hard work
We sweat all over again: searching, carrying, hunting
Burying, protecting, fighting, painting, planning
Our plight never stops.