Poor farmer, you wear
Your dry land,
You drink the whirwind.
I know, poor farmer,
Your weeping is of no use.
I know, poor farmer,
Your life is in hollow,
Where there is nothing
To eat and you see
No where to go.
Still then, you are
The great, my dear,
Without you no one can
Live here for a day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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