My abuelito gets home, kicks off his shoes and sits on the sofa waiting for me to bring him his beer. Worn out de tanto pinche probeza, still he rises with the sun every morning. No weekends or days off for his cut hands and tired feet. He tends to the lands like our ancestors. Taking beatings from the sun, still no home. Working hard all year long, still no food to last the month. Years of evolution with no progression.