The piglets go by, smart as you please,
each one's ears tingling on a road so warm,
so full of sunshine.

On the heap of ashes, magpies climb, and children too,
and the shimmering air rises.

In the threshing yard, so good for feeling the warm sun,
people are standing about, the color of the rice stalks,
the sounds of their quarrels the same color as snow
after sweeping.
The ox is dozing with its packsaddle on its back.
They are all warm. They are all poor.