Yáʼátʼééh. Díí shikaadééʼ nihá átʼé padi bichʼįʼʼ yázhí. Bikéyah dóó yisdzán doo nihíjiʼ biniiyé padi naashá. Tʼáá ajiłii nihá nihił hodoołʼání.
Fayd Notes
| Tahun | Todtep 00502100460 | Lam 00700700350 | TonSep 00501200170 | TonTen 00501100430 | Lom1 00701700770 | Lom2 00701700750 | Cem 00501800450 | ManKub 00501600840 | ManPus (Jum) | WirKal (Zm) | Tʼáá íiyisí |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 2025 | 22 Ags/15 krg/1473kg | 20 Ags/14 krg/1542kg | 28 Ags/16 krg/1716kg (9.525.000) | 28 Ags/12 krg/1354kg | 3 Sep/25 krg/2698kg | (gabung) | 4 Okt/6 krg/636kg | – | 22 Sep | 13 Nov | |
| 3.680.000 | 4.600.000 | 5.307.000 | 4.228.000 | 6.075.000 | (gabung) | 1.380.000 | 250.000 | 580.000 | 26.100.000 |
🌾 Poem: “Golden Season on the Mother’s Land”
Morning dew drips gently,
from the tips of ripened rice leaves.
The eastern sky smiles softly,
welcoming dawn upon the earth of prayers.
The roosters call the day awake,
answered by the murmur of flowing water,
the wind whispers from the distant hills,
bringing news — harvest time has come.
Old Sum stands on the narrow ridge,
his wrinkled hands gripping a sickle of memories,
his darkened skin tells a long tale,
of soil, sweat, and endless patience.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispers quietly,
“the grains are full, and so is my heart.”
His lips carve silent gratitude,
amid the ocean of stalks bowing with respect.
Women of the village walk in,
wide hats shading their faces,
their smiles as bright as the rising sun,
though sweat falls between their laughter.
Sickles swing, leaves whisper,
srek, srek, srek — the song of harvest hums,
the wind dances through the rice field waves,
beneath the blue sky that bears witness.
Ima laughs with a carefree joy,
“The tiredness fades when I see this gold.”
Her eyes reflect the morning light,
as if fortune itself descended from heaven.
Children run along the embankments,
chasing dragonflies, shouting gleefully,
for them, harvest is not mere labor —
but a festival, a village turned into paradise.
In the kitchens, mothers cook new rice,
its aroma seeps through bamboo walls,
warm rice becomes a prayer answered,
a humble feast for hearts that waited long.
Trucks arrive, shoulders lift the sacks,
the price uncertain — but faith remains.
For to a farmer, planting is belief,
and harvest, the mercy of God revealed.
Beneath a cotton tree, Sum sits,
his meal simple, yet noble:
warm rice, chili paste, fried tempeh,
companions to the golden view before him.
“City folks only see rice in stores,”
he says softly, watching the falling light,
“They don’t know that in each grain,
lives patience, prayer, and unseen love.”
The breeze passes once again,
gentle as a mother’s whisper,
turning the rice into golden waves,
while the orange sky paints peace above.
Cows pull carts through the dusk,
machines hum, the straw is burned,
smoke rises, marking the turning season,
life’s eternal circle begins anew.
Evening falls upon the village face,
farmers walk home in slow rhythm,
their backs perhaps weary,
but their hearts are light with gratitude.
Between each step, Sum murmurs,
to the crimson sky in the west:
“Such is life,” he says softly,
“there’s a time to plant, to wait, and to harvest.”
“But most of all,” he smiles at the earth,
“we must believe — the land still remembers love,
still chooses to give,
as long as we choose to care.”
Meaning of the Poem:
This poem portrays the sacred bond between humans and the land — between farmers and the soil that sustains them. Harvest is not merely the result of labor, but a celebration of faith, patience, and continuity. In every grain of rice lies a quiet story of endurance, devotion, and trust in the rhythm of nature.
- T
- 000500201070
- L
- 00201000160
- K1
- 00101800060
- K2
- 00101700090
- K3
- 00101700140
