he painted the planting season.
women dressed like they are dancing the curacha.
anahaw hats to cover their heads from the sun that early morning.
a man strums the guitar. all the planters are women
with their baro and saya.
five or more women are on the other side of the field.
a patch of mud. another woman leans on the soil.
counting grains on her bamboo basket.
trees on an island of some groves.
there is a blur inside my mind.
there is no truth to the colors you have chosen.
i can say you were never there when you painted them.
i went to the ricefield of my father.
an old man, he leans on the mud. putting the riceplants. he is naked, brown and stained by
the scorching color of the sun.the planters are children, and some older men in their twenties
to issue some commands. they are always on the rush. they are not talking.
mother cooks the rice and prepares the fish and some coconut wine.
what i see is more real than what you painted. you must be lying, you were never there.
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