Harvest

When the fields ripen

The gray  and golden grains gathered in sacks

The guitars will freshen the air

Children will dance around the stubbles

The farmers will wash their hands

Gratitude written on their faces

They will tell the  stories

How the rain filled the thirsty land

Balanced the summer’s dryness

Like when the maiden peeks through the window

After hearing a serenade

It’s him, she says.

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