A voice calls out to a ploughman, urging him across boundary lands, meadows, and mountains. The speaker sees the ploughman’s work as something almost sacred: as the blade cuts the soil, it uncovers bare life, and his strong hands carry love and vitality. There is real admiration here for physical labour and for the closeness between the man, his horses, and the earth.
The mood is energetic and hopeful. The command to the horses—“Up, horses, now!”—is brisk and confident. Broken furrows are not failures; they are lines that will turn into bright, ripened grain. The sweat of hard work is promised a reward: a golden harvest under the sun. It is a short, earthy tribute to effort and growth.