I'm busy harvesting wheat these days, but I haven't written a poem. Today I'm going to write a new poem for everyone to enjoy. Give more opinions and suggestions, and strive for one song after another

I'm busy harvesting wheat these days, but I haven't written a poem. Today I'm going to write a new poem for everyone to enjoy. Give more opinions and suggestions, and strive for one song after another. . . ? I didn't expect that the host family was still cutting wheat artificially, which really impressed me. However, your poem doesn't rhyme, and it feels a bit like a labor song. My heart itched, and I wrote a poem to make a fool of myself:

The land of China is a beautiful landscape.

The farmer was sweating profusely and busy with the sickle.

If you cut the wheat and pull the grass quickly,

The horn of labor resounded everywhere.

The sound of ho ho rises from the ground,

Happy harvest, happy mood.

The sun is high and the frequency is high.

Everyone has a black face.

Hard work for half a year, in black and white,

As long as the harvest is happy.

Children are running in the fields,

Pick up the ears of wheat and fill the basket.

The wheat awn has been installed,

Pull it to the magnetic field axis.

Put on donkeys and horses and crush them repeatedly,

Separated skin becomes stronger.

The wind blows off wheat and chaff,

Wheat needs to be tied in a bag.

One by one, they came home loaded,

Store it in the big granary at home!