The evening sun burns the entire plain scarlet.
The boy reaper reaps the grass in silence.
Head bent, body curled, bands quick with work;
From one side he slowly moves on to the other.
Grass buries his tiny body—
We see only, in the dense clumps of grass,
One bamboo basket, a few mounds of grass,
And in the evening sun, gold flashes off the sickle.