Noda's seedlings have withered by half.
The farmer's heart is like soup,
Grandson shook his fan.
In midsummer, the weather is dry and hot, and the sun is very hot, just like a burning flame. Under the strong sunshine barbecue, the immature crops in the field were scorched. The farmer watched eagerly that his crops would be lost and a year's hard work would go up in smoke. There will be no food to support the family in the future, and there will be heavy taxes on the body. How can I live? Their hearts are anxious, just like boiling water.
In the old society, the life of farmers was so painful, but the children of those noble families didn't work at all. They fattened themselves up by the blood and sweat of farmers. In the hot summer, they are very comfortable, their fans are shaking and it is raining.
This ancient folk song, with plain language and sharp contrast, vividly and profoundly reveals the different living conditions and different thoughts and feelings of the farmer and his son Wang Sun. It reflects the social phenomenon of inequality in feudal society.
Compassion for farmers
Don Li Shen
one
In spring, as long as you sow a seed, you can harvest a lot of food in autumn.
There is no waste of heaven and earth, and the toiling peasants are still starving to death.
Secondly,
At noon in summer, the sun is very hot, farmers are still working, and beads are dripping into the soil.
Who knows that every grain of Chinese food is hard?
Tian Jia
Don Ni Zhong Yi
Father plowed Harada, son? This mountain is barren.
The grain is not obvious in June, and the housekeeper has repaired the warehouse.
Xun Xi Ji pin
-Dong Qing Yao
It's lucky to add a little money when the rice is green and yellow.
February, the new April and May Valley, who are you working for?
Look at cutting wheat.
-Don Bai Juyi
The Tian family has less leisure in the month, and people are twice as busy in May. In the evening, the south wind rises and the wheat turns yellow. Mother-in-law is rich in food, and children are full of pot pulp. Go with Tian Xiang. Ding Zhuang is in Nangang. Filled with the heat of the country, the back was scorched by the sun. I don't know about the heat, but I regret the long summer. There is a poor woman with a child on her back. Grab the ear with your right hand and hang the basket with your left arm. Listening to his words of concern is very sad. The family lost all their taxes, so they took this to satisfy their hunger. Today, I have no merit, and I have never worked in farming and mulberry. There are three hundred stones in the land, and there is surplus food at the age of eight. I am ashamed to read this in private, and I can't forget it every day.