Golden Sheaves of Rice
Zheng Min

Golden sheaves of rice stand
In reaped paddy fields in autumn
Like countless exhausted mothers.
With wrinkled pretty faces on the road at dusk,
The harvest moon is hanging
Above towering trees.
In twilight, distant hills
Crowd our hearts.
No statue looks quieter.
Bearing that great fatigue, you
Hang your heads in meditation.
In the expanse of autumn fields
Silence. Silence. History is no more
Than a small stream flowing underfoot.
But you, standing there,
Will become a thought of mankind.