My father has gone, sleeping on the land he loved so much. He belonged to that land. He was the son of it.
My father was the eldest son of his family. His parents died when he was very young. He had to take care of all his younger brothers and sisters, and the land they depended on. He was quite familiar with different skills of farming. He loved the land and all the products from his hard work.
He always enjoyed sitting beside the land when he finished some of his jobs, watching them quietly. Sometimes, facing the growing vegetables, he said with a smile: Look, the leaves are dark green! How strong they are!
The fruits were the best ones by my father's hands. My father sat by the land, watching the water flowing into the field, satisfied with his work. The sun in spring shone on the water, my father's back was warmed with the gold sunshine, at that time, he was strong and healthy.
My father did different work in the field all the year round---that was his life. My father didn't read a lot, he even had never stepped out of the countryside. All his interests were lying on his land. With a small piece of leaf in his hand, my father could always tell me so much about it.
My father was only a farmer, his hands with thick,hardened skin, and cuts from hooks. But he had his own world, which was much wider and richer than the outside. He found the beauty of his land:every leaf, every root was a line of his book of life.
My father was a real poet of his land.
