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.