Empty Pages, Empty Fields

Empty pages, empty fields,
Where the writer and the ploughman wield,
The pen and plough to make their crease,
Labours they will never cease,
Til barns are full and tales unfurled,
Their gifts bestowed upon this world.

And so, beneath the crimson sun,
Knowing that their toil is done,
The pens and ploughs are set aside,
And each can look upon their work with pride.