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.