The songs coming from the field ridges carry the fragrance of new grains. Facing the yellowish and rolling moonlight, the shining sickle is about to begin harvesting.
Many grasses are getting old, but the frogs jumping into the tea bowl are brand new. The fish in the ditch is no longer the same fish it was 40 years ago. It can easily become a meal on the plate, just drink old wine.
Butterflies dance in the sun, dancing along the river of time for a long time at noon. A red dragonfly sat on a branch by the pond, counting the colorful past. Where does
come from and where is it going? The rice crystallizes every grain of thought into white, standing up straight again and again with its humble body, weeding wildly in the wind and rain.
The days in my hometown are lonely and quiet. Some people are dead, and some people are alive, sharing the same land, water, air and sunshine, just like the endless growth of rice.
Thinking of rice and the hometown I can’t go back to, I subdivided the high-rise building thirty floors down piece by piece and marked the paddy field of my home. Whenever I had free time, I picked up the shovel and went downstairs to help the thirsty rice. Watered.
