I am
a poor farmer
plowing the field of my heart.

Early in the Spring,
I plow the
sleeping land.

If I bury the seeds
of the dream in the deep
heart of the soil,

soon, in no time,
it ripens as the color
of the falling sunset,
and fills the field.

I am
a shabby farmer
plowing the field of life.

All day, in the field
of life, I sort out
the weeds, like I
sort out injustice.

I raise my sweaty face
and look at the evening sky,
and the happiness of eternity
fills my heart.