On the field I, the grass mowed,
Spit, sometimes the grass was cut down.
Someone has not seen the beauty,
Which braid Lodge.
But the bees were stinging me,
Then sometimes, I pulled down happiness.
For us, the grass,
For bees probably happiness.
They fought as best they could,
I gave the cuffs.
My face as the watermelon,
One bee will sting in the nose.
One cheek like a ball,
But I was mowing did not leave.
Though I was already in a fever,
Mahal oblique, as saber I.
And try to drive away bees biting,
Ran to the pond to bathe me.
But the bees were stinging me,
And drove on.
Chirik V.V. CENTURIES g 18:20