Harvests
HARVESTS
It is done not this hour but tomorrow
When the new crops emerges from life but dead
After the rains departs and the sun's laughs starts
We shall remain withered and wuthering
Swinging and singing to the baby winds.
The tradition of the fruits and the peasant
This pilgrims passage before the year dies
Seen by whoever passes the ranch
As we wait for the Scythes
It is a harvest time.
Its time for the ripe crops journey home
A dirge with the going, to meet dear master of the field
Joy for him who tame the land yesterday, well
Nothing, what offered, reaped than a promise fulfilled
Harvests of wishes, to home of the Lord.
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