Before the sun has climbed the eastern hill,
When all the village air is cool and still.
With a weathered plow and a heart of gold,
The farmer wakes to wake the sleeping mold.
His hands are maps of every field he's sown,
With skin as rugged as a river stone.
He reads the clouds and understands the breeze,
The secret language of the swaying trees.
Through scorching heat and the monsoon's pour,
He guards the green from the forest to the shore.
Each seed a promise, a prayer in the mud,
Nurtured by sweat and the beat of his blood.
The golden paddy bows its heavy head,
To thank the man by whom the world is fed.
Without his labor, the cities would be cold,
A kingdom starving for the grains of gold.
Though kings may rule and the empires rise,
The truth is written in the farmer's eyes.
A humble hero with a muddy shoe,
The one who feeds the earth—and me and you.