Whither does this path lead? To where the wind stirs the ripening grain. The road meanders north, threading s…
Whither does this path lead? To where the wind stirs the ripening grain.
The road meanders north, threading scattered paddies together. Come midsummer, the fragrance of grain floods the way. Children glean stray ears while insects sing in the grass. When night stalks sway under the moon, every traveler drifts into a sweet dream of harvest plenty.