Workers in the rice fields, Labourers on agrarian land, They move in rows and columns, They work assiduously until they are spent, Until twilight wears its garment over the region. It's the golden season, The season that precedes the dry, It’s a season when the land yields bountifully, The land births a teeming population, Nature has smiled over the fields. They gather their harvest in silos and local shelters, There’s enough for the home and market, Then comes the annual festival, They sing songs in their indigenous dialect, They come out in colourful attire, They extol Nature for his kind and merciful acts. The town is a shadow of itself, It sits in forlorn hope, A lonely wind sweeps through its streets, The fields have become a haven for birds and unseen creatures, Land dispute, encroachment and trampled rights, These threesomes have stripped the land of its beauty, They have pushed the town down the cliff.