Plowing

Across the field, a single red sun spreads faintly.

Beneath it, dry branches stand in a row.

Both the person and the ox are steeped in the color of the soil, seeming to become one body with the land. It is impossible to separate who plows and who is pulled along. The two are plowing the same day.

Within this single scene, all the color we have seen until now is contained.

A color that endured without dying,

a color that became not earth but time,

a color that seems to have vanished and yet, in the end, breathes.

It is the color finally won by what has long endured on this land.

The color of dried grass

is the living color that remains in the end, even after life has long endured.