Beneath the golden morning sun,
The farmer toils, his day begun.
With calloused hands and heart so true,
He plants the seeds for me and you.

The soil, it speaks a language old,
Of stories whispered, futures told.
In every furrow, hope takes root,
In nature’s song, a humble lute.

The seasons change, the rains may fall,
Yet steadfast stands he, through it all.
For in his heart, a vision clear,
A harvest bountiful and near.

When dusk descends, his work complete,
He rests, soul weary, yet replete.
For in the fields of dreams and toil,
He nurtures life, he tends the soil.