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Before towers of glass pierced the clouds, there was the Keeper of the Dawn. They walked barefoot across the veins of the land, a blazing hero with calloused hands. Beneath the nation’s beating core, They split the soil into thirsty scars. Meet the afterglow—heat rising beneath, eyes cradling our starving tones. We call them “Farmer,” but they are far more— a sentinel of hunger and hope, a bridge between life and table, a shadow walking toward the horizon. With hands cracked by years of labor, they scatter hope in furrows, water it with sweat, and trust the sky to keep its promises. When winds falter, they face a revealing truth; with hearts of steel, They break the earth at dawn. Rice gleams like pearls in mud that prospers, under rain that rusts in the core. On the rust of gold, life is coaxed to rise, bathed in sunlight, wrapped in a seamless glow. Yet each dawn returns, painting the fields in gold— but in strokes without gold. The sun weaves on brittle leaves. Holding back the sun from slipping away, they call your name. In every crop, their backs are bent in offering, sacrificed at the earth’s core. The city forgets their name. Glass walls muffle the sound of footsteps. The last farmers, as I say, bend with the mercy of the wind. Water it with sweat, trust the sky to keep its promises. The pierced script is deafening, yet humankind boils life in both famine and feast. The farmer is not merely a tiller of soil— They are the keepers of the nation’s heartbeat. While others chase gold in cities of glass, Our farmers harvest the sun. The morning mist clings— even in towns of greed and gold. Their plow is not just wood and steel, but a staff that stirs the earth’s heart. When the core meets the shore, they rise before dawn, not to beat the traffic, but to greet the earth with calloused hands. Each grain of rice they sow mends a nation’s hunger. The crops sway gently, not in drought, but in answer to their call. Wealth, measured by weight, rises as clouds stir above the fields. When the sun beats in heavy drops, The farmer’s burden follows the flock. For when the Keeper rests, the nation starves. And so they endure— calloused hands cradling the morning, eyes fixed on the horizon, guarding the truth that at the break of day, at dawn, lies the core of us all.