The old farmer
Follows the rising sun to the fields
Hands cracked from years of work
Skin wrinkled and weather-worn
Back bent low from daily labor,
from the weight of the world

All rests on the farmer
The elite in their glittering towers
The downtrodden in their bamboo huts
Every industry, economy, society
Owes everything to the simple faithfulness
Of sowing and tending and reaping