See his eyes that gleam in wonder
under sharp rays of the Sun!
He works when it rains with thunder,
blunders not when work’s begun.
Ploughing fields, a dun flute he flaunts,
voicing each of his thoughts and wants;
He sings a song, hailing the gods,
braving his life’s sudden odds.
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Every Sunday he herds cattle,
battling many hardships, pains;
Like a cloud that seems to prattle,
rattles all the weeds for gains.
Dancing and rejoicing, he heads
to the lands where grounds are beds.
Isled, forlorn are those plain lands;
People there don rustic bands.
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On Mondays a town he visits,
livid eyes of girls to eye;
But amongst those he sure limits
in minutes one lass with tie.
Greeted with a smile so wondrous,
plays the flute, appears dextrous.
And then he returns to the fields,
checking what each of them yields.
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Thrice a week the man works each land,
fanned oft by the god of winds;
And when it rains, smells the wet sand
manned by Earth ours bearing sins.
Like a star he then throws some light
on short bushes every night;
And this he does with lit lanterns,
their glow showing his hair auburn.
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The rest of the days he rests well
by wells that lie amongst grass;
On the days he rings a big bell,
quells commotions with the brass.
Every summer he awaits the spring,
the season he joys and sings.
And each winter he primes his fields,
hoping just to boost his yields.
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