The fields are heavy of rice grains
Planted during the monsoon rains
Billowing clouds rolled overhead
The golden summer bed

Farmers and their curved sickles
Bare skins with deep wrinkles
Straw hats and sweaty faces
Marched onward on steady paces

I went outside and ran uphill
To where the acacia stood still
I climbed her rough branches
And sat on her broad arches

The flute found its way to my lips
From the strap that was on my hips
I placed my fingers on the note holes
The music of thousand souls

The hymn to the farmers of old
Of long forgotten stories told
Melodies of sharp and mellow
Ranged from joy to sorrow

Under the bright sun as they went
Stiff limbs and backs bent
They heard the song and slowly halted
And turned around with faces twisted

Into smiles and laughter and bright eyes
From weary souls to harvesting rice
They waved their hats into the air
And the wind played with their hair

Father with his broad shoulders cried
Cupping his hands with all his pride
A good harvest this time awaits
Of twining souls and music fates