In fields where the furrows sing,
Your words bloom like ancient oaks,
Whispering tales of toil and grace,
Carved in the heart of time.

Each verse a shovel, each line a spade,
Digging through the layers of history,
Unearthing the spirit of a land,
Where nature and man entwine.

Your pen, a plough, turning soil,
Revealing roots of human kin,
In every clod of earth, a story,
Of ancestors and their legacy.

Oh, voice of the sodden fields,
May your echoes never fade,
For in your words, we find our place,
Amidst the whispers of the earth.