观刈麦英译

作者：佚名

Farmers are seldom free during the whole year, and especially busy in May.
When night came south winds blow, covering the fields were wheat that is yellow and rippened.
Women carried baskets full of food, and children carried pots of soup and water.
Following eachother they set out after men who worked in the fields and delievers the food, men who reaped wheats in Nangang.
Their feet steamed of the heat from the ground, their backs baked under the hot sunlight.
Their toil and tiredness ignored them from the heat, but what they cherished was the limited days of summer.
Then a poor women, who held a child and stood by one side.
Her right hand was picking up left-over wheat spikes, while a broken basket hang onto her left shoulder.
Hearing what she told, makes * sad.
They seld all their houses and fields to fulfill the taxes, and now their hunger can only be fulfilled upon these pieces of grains of wheat.
Yet what have I gave to God that got me out of these agricultural life.
300 denier of salaries per year, with rice and food that cannot be finished over the year.
Thinking of this made my heart thump with shame, a shame that clings on until every end of the day.