The Farm-Hand Poem by Kong Yin

The sun is newly arisen,
the birds still singing,
the shepherd barely stirring,
and I’ve begun my sowing.
As weather permits,
my seeds must sprout
and bear their fruit.

When the sun sets,
the birds return to their nests.
Sheep tended to in the shed,
I lie down in the harvested field,
gazing at your stars
with the eye of a beloved,
breathing my last:
“Oh, Lord! At least I have cultivated
the land you entrusted to me.”