Wheat fields in June
The sun is sharp
The farmer holds a sickle
Cut the rusty life into the bright wheat field
Golden wheat fields
Gray hair
The deranged farmland reached out and tugged at the plough
The earth harvests the last stubble of the peasants
Transparent glass showcase
We threw stone tools in
The Steam Age threw the wheel teeth into it
It was time for us to throw the farm tools in
We turn our backs on the land
Let the thatched green flame burn through the hills and fields
Longitudinal veins and tibia
Grandpa held his grandson's hand
It is one confusion that leads to another
Head to the deep, deep night