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Am I happy or unhappy? This question has never occurred to me. Life simply goes on. Yes, this bag of bones dressed in rags can still plant and reap rice from morning till dusk. Disease, wounds, hardship and scarcity have always been part of my life. I don't complain.
The farmer: My wife is wrong. My eyes do see—they see more than they should. My ears do hear—they hear more than is good for me. I don't talk about what I know because I know too much. I know for example, greed, anger, and lust are the root of all evils.
I am at peace with the land and the conditions of my life. But I feel a great pity for my wife. I have been forcing silence upon her all these years, yet she has not once complained of anything.
I wanted to have a lot of children and grandchildren around me but now cities and foreign lands have attracted my children away and it seems that none of them will ever come back to live here again. To whom shall I give these rice fields when I die? For hundreds of years this strip of land has belonged to our family. I know every inch of it. My children grew up on it, catching frogs and mud crabs and gathering flowers. Still the land could not tie them down or call them back. When each of them has a pair of jeans,they are off like birds on the wing.
Fortunately, my wife is still with me, and both of us are still strong. Wounds heal over time. Sickness comes and goes, and we get back on our feet again. I never want to leave this land. It's nice to feel the wet earth as my fingers dig into the soil, planting rice, to hear my wife sighing, "Old man, if I die first, I shall become a cloud to protect you from the sun." It's good to smell the scent of ripening rice in November. The soft cool breeze moves the sheaves, which ripple and shimmer like waves of gold.
Yes, I love this land and I hope one of my children comes back one day to live, and gives me grandchildren so that I can pass on the land's secret messages to them.
