Into these fields I walk, where my ancestors have walked before me and if you listen real close you can hear their voices whispering in the passing of the wind and if you stare long enough off into the distance you can see their spirits at work in these fields. I think to myself, working in these fields, it runs through my veins, and as the sweat and blood rolls down I look up to the heavens and pray to God for my hands. They are meant for working, and my feet, they are meant for walking, and as my ancestors before me a farmer I shall be, for thee my lord for thee. Always at work and never at rest, and a heart full of faith, and two stong arms will never let these fields die because I know the rain will always come as long as I keep my faith in my heart. When my time comes I hope that my ancestors will grant me the honor for my soul to work here and let my words of wisdom follow through the winds so the present and future farmers that walk into these fields shall never let them die, and as the sweet and blood rolls down the farmers that work these fields faces they will have something to be proud of. As long as farming runs through somebody's veins these fields will never die, they will stay eternal.