Up and down,

Up and down,

Bobbed the heads

And the backs as well.

They reaped in a row

In  paddies of rice,

Green – gold with mellowing.

Sun-baked were their skins;

Sun-ripened was the rice.

They swayed on their ankles

Buried in the muddy clay.

They swung their sickles,

Flashing the crescent blades 

And so many sickle moons

Gleamed in the morning sun

Upon the green blades of plants

And the gold ears of rice.

The scorched midriffs

Bent over the paddy

And swung with the rhythm

Of eternal reaping.

With each swing,

The sweat glistened

Down their spines,

Down their faces,

Down their brows –

The salt of the earth – it was

And it poured from the reapers

And became one with the earth.