The Harvester

On a patch of land not far from here
There are lit candles at night millions of them
A man I don't know his name
Walks around and snuffs out light, sometimes
He hesitate changes his mind the light he was going to
Extinguish flicks brighter
With his thumb and index finger is corned by this arduous
Work and he sits on a stone to rest as new light springs up
Behind him; his task is endless.
He walks to the part of the field were candle light have burnt
Out, if one still burns but has no wick he helps it out
Then it is morning and the field has golden grains