Folks play the tunes passed through seasons
toiling and breaking the brown soil, wet baked
working till their skin is torn in hearty song
Behind them comes the mothers of nature
sowing the seeds of our living beneath the soil
young chased butterflies in dreamland future
saw a twisted tendril and regretted the broken soul
Sweat drips from the honest brow
in a willful toil bended as a bow
sun rolls out and evening comes
body aches happier to sweet homes
Sleep steals the heart of young tired limbs
crickets glinting speak with legs nimble
in the art of patience passed unto every son
folks wait the forthcoming fruitful season.
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