The Solitary Reaper

Whispers of a Song Beyond the Hills

Upon a golden field where silence grows,

A figure bends, her scythe in gentle rows.

The sun, a lantern in the sky’s wide dome,

Finds her alone, yet she makes it a home.

Each stroke she casts through ripened grain,

A hymn arises, both joy and pain.

Her voice—like water over ancient stone—

Sings to the earth, though she stands alone.

No flock attends, no village crowd,

No clamor lifts, no praise aloud.

Yet mountains lean and rivers bend,

To hear a song that seems no end.

It tells of sorrow time cannot keep,

Of lovers lost and memories deep.

Of harvests gone and winters cold,

Of stories buried yet quietly told.

Her melody threads through silent air,

A tapestry woven from grief and care.

The lark grows still, the breeze takes part,

As if her song commands each heart.

What need has she for an audience wide,

When hills themselves stand by her side?

What need for fame, for eyes to see,

When even silence bends the knee?

O Solitary Reaper, still you remain,

Cutting the field, singing the strain.

A fleeting figure the day may forget,

But your song lingers—an echo unmet.

And those who pass, though briefly they hear,

Carry your music from year to year.

For in your solitude, the world takes part,

And plants your song within its heart.