Beneath the amber skies, the farmer stands tall,
His hands, like ancient maps, know every inch of the soil,
From dawn’s first blush to twilight’s gentle call,
He toils in rhythm, his heart loyal.

The whispering winds sing songs of grace,
As seeds are sown with tender care,
Each furrow a promise, each row a sacred place,
Life’s cycle renewed in the open air.

Through seasons’ dance, under sun and rain,
He nurtures dreams with patient hands,
In fields of gold, in nature’s domain,
He understands what the earth demands.

When night descends, and stars ignite,
The farmer rests, his soul at peace,
For in each harvest’s golden light,
He finds a world where labors cease.