The Farmer
You who cultivate fields,
Your merit is great
Wealth flows from your fingers
The sea gushes out in front of your house.
You share what you produce
With the begging orphan at your door.
For this you receive blessing.
And so ants will not eat your fingers;
After you die, your destiny will be paradise,
As long as you live, you will be blessed.
PARAMIHIN
PAUNTIIN
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