The rice, it ripens in the field

The clouds, they hang low in the sky,
A gray veil, that does not die.
A thatched-roofed house, stands alone,
In the middle of a wide rice zone.

The rice, it ripens in the field,
A sea of green, that never yield.
The wind, it whispers through the stalks,
A song, that never falters or halts.

The house, it stands there, stoic and strong,
A silent sentinel, where memories belong.
It has seen the seasons come and go,
And the rice, it’s watched it grow.

The clouds, they move, and the sun appears,
A beam of light, that dispels the fears.
And the rice, it basks in the warm embrace,
A sight, that fills one with grace.

The thatched-roofed house, it stands so proud,
A symbol of the past, unbroken and unbound.
A reminder of times gone by,
And the memories that will never die.

The clouds, they come, and the clouds, they go,
But the thatched-roofed house, it stands aglow.
A testament to the beauty of life,
In the wide field, of ripening rice.