Bake the wheat to golden brown.
Stone, your mother asked you to harvest wheat.
The wheat is ripe.
A heavy hook.
Bend over with fatigue
The wheat is ripe.
The scene of harvesting wheat is both strange and familiar.
Cutting, stretching, pulping and drying.
Sickle, wooden shovel, rake, straw hat, dustpan ...
Now, I have collected it.
Hidden in my father's "long-stemmed Chinese pipe bag"
Hiding in a place of flesh and blood
Hidden in the left atrium and right ventricle
Hidden in sentimental brain cells
The wheat is ripe.
Now mechanized harvesting
Some people stopped farming and became city residents.
DNA testimony
You can't go near land.
There are no five clothes.
Far away, it is also within Jiuzu.
The wheat is ripe.
There is no time to worry unnecessarily.
Only memories.
Lumbar intervertebral disc is easy to protrude this season.
Periarthritis of shoulder is easy to be complicated
Tired, sharpen your sickle and rest.
The wheat is ripe.
have/reap a bumper/copious/rich harvest
Sweat can be sprinkled.
Don't spoil every grain of rice.
Stone, working in the city, let it go first.
Your mother told you to go home and collect wheat.