Though the streams and rivers that sung your melodious songs have suddenly shrank,
And have in unison withdrawn to the lowest ebb of their quietness,
Though they flow only muttedly with nothing to celebrate in your name,
Their entrails ripped open to reveal the carcass of their smoothened and painted rocks,
But have nothing to share to your fame,
And though the rills that refreshes you with cold winds have all given up,
They are confined to their sandy remains,
Where its frail waters hid under its belly, detained,
Watch and ponder in solitude,
Though the sky no longer host pregnant clouds that maraud with their hearts,
Yearning to deliver their babies to thrill you and the earth,
Even its Flora and fauna,
And though every obstacle stares to mock you,
And every gloom gapes to stifle the laughter that beckons on you,
Yet it's the season of your reaping,
Source
In the midst of the haze that blinds your eyes from seeing,
I perceive hunger convulsing in the fear of the sheaves that you bind,
To tame his courage and being,
Bind and bring in your sheaves and stake them to the trees,
Sing from your heart what pleases your soul free,
If the streams won't sing and ring,
It is your season of reaping out of a new dawn,
But curved only in your name to celebrate his grace.