A Poem

Noisy crickets now own the harvested fields;
Bundles of smoldering rice straw fill the plain with haze.
Farmers sit by their hearths enjoying the long evenings,
Weaving mats and preparing for spring.
When farm families gather and talk
The words "false" and "true" are never uttered.
City folk aren't that lucky-
Those poor souls must bow and scrap all day.

---Ryokan---