There are few of us left
In this modern world
We are an anachronism  
Left untouched and unhampered by civilization

On the far mountain lies our small shanty
Where dwelt  my father and my mother before me
Where wild flowers beacon and fresh water from mountain springs
Glitter under the sun

Sturdy crops begging less from the soil and rain
Abound our hillside farm carved by my father in his youth 
And free-roaming goats and chicken
Walk with abandon on our sloping yard

By the wisdom of our ancestors we learn
To commune with the Lord; to give thanks,
For the green crops in the field
And healthy animals grazing on the grass     

Our day is special when we trek down
From our shanty, to the town by the sea
To savor the luxury of breakfast at the town market 
And barter our farm crops with catch from the sea

Our strong limbs carry us down
From our high shanty to the town by the sea
And bring us up on hard climbs
Back to our high shanty

We are an anachronism of the generation
As we still wait in eager anticipation
The noisy serenades at dusk and wake-up calls at dawn
By the birds of freedom aloft tall trees or floating on gentle winds