In those heavy boots of hers.
She doesn’t carry a purse.
She could hold the globe in just one hand…
She doesn’t bother putting make-up on.
By evening, it’d be gone.
The sweat of her brow would wash it away…
Before she rises to rule another day.
Martha Madrugada, tall and firm.
Her hair is tied into a bun so tight.
Blacker than anything man could design.
Yet I’m sure it’s softer than a mother’s midnight whisper.
How I wish I could speak just a moment with her.
And all I want to know is what she was before.
How she became the woman I see working hard each time…
How she rose up from that little girl without a dime.
Martha Madrugada, sure and strong.
I wonder where you came from.