I am five years old; I earn my own pay.
I carry, wash and cook from morning to night.
I call out ‘Enchilada, enchilada’ for ten coins a day.
I roll out tortillas, flat and white as clay,
warm them on a griddle, flip them when they’re right—
I am seven years old and I earn my own pay.
Other children stare at me: I can smell their dismay.
Because I don’t go to school, can’t read or write,
I sing ‘Enchilada, enchilada’ for ten coins a day.
I dream of another life, the games I could play.
I’d love to kick a football or run with a kite,
for I am nine years old and I earn my own pay.
The money helps my family, it keeps hunger at bay.
But I can’t help thinking: Is this my birthright?
To chant ‘Enchilada, enchilada’ for ten coins a day?
I long to start afresh, I want to run away,
leave this street, the black stove, the harsh city light.
I am eleven years old yet I earn my own pay;
I cry out ‘Enchilada, enchilada’ for ten coins a day.
