I'd rather be the dust of the road
And trampled on by the feet of the poor . . .
I'd rather be the rivers that flow
And have washerwomen along my shore . . .
I'd rather be the poplars next to the river
With only sky above and water below . . .
I'd rather be the miller's donkey
And have him beat me and care for me . . .
Rather this than go through life
Always looking back and feeling regret . . .