Harvester

The Harvester On a patch of land not far from here There are lit candles at night millions of them A man I don`t know his name Walks around and snuffs out light, sometimes He hesitate changes his mind the light he was going to Extinguish flicks brighter With his thumb and index finger is corned by this arduous Work and he sits on a stone to rest as new light springs up Behind him; his task is endless. He walks to the part of the field were candle light have burnt Out, if one still burns but has no wick he helps it out Then it is morning and the field has golden grains