Modern poetry of harvesting wheat

Bake the wheat to golden brown.

Stone, your mother asked you to harvest wheat.

The wheat is ripe.

A heavy hook.

Bend over with fatigue

The wheat is ripe.

The scene of harvesting wheat is both strange and familiar.

Cutting, stretching, pulping and drying.

Sickle, wooden shovel, rake, straw hat, dustpan ...

Now, I have collected it.

Hidden in my father's "long-stemmed Chinese pipe bag"

Hiding in a place of flesh and blood

Hidden in the left atrium and right ventricle

Hidden in sentimental brain cells

The wheat is ripe.

Now mechanized harvesting

Some people stopped farming and became city residents.

DNA testimony

You can't go near land.

There are no five clothes.

Far away, it is also within Jiuzu.

The wheat is ripe.

There is no time to worry unnecessarily.

Only memories.

Lumbar intervertebral disc is easy to protrude this season.

Periarthritis of shoulder is easy to be complicated

Tired, sharpen your sickle and rest.

The wheat is ripe.

have/reap a bumper/copious/rich harvest

Sweat can be sprinkled.

Don't spoil every grain of rice.

Stone, working in the city, let it go first.

Your mother wants you to go home and harvest wheat.