The dreary peasant stands in front of his uncultivated land,
He laments and cries for his dear land,
This year the rain is scanty,
The bare land has lost its beauty and dignity.
It is the worst curse for a peasant
To see his land uncultivated,
But it is the harsh reality of ruthless nature,
Man is helpless to its relentless fury.
A true farmer inevitably knows the worth of good rain water to cultivate his land,
But the Almighty God knows what role he will play to everything and everyone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem