Red fruit of the moon

The night of the new moon.

The red soil is still a little cold.

The roots of tomatoes are deep in the soil,

I'm breathing quietly.

When it comes to the moon of the upper string,

Young leaves inhale light,

Touched by the fingertips of the wind,

Swaying, swaying.

The night of the full moon.

The red-colored fruit,

Tense like blood,

The sign of water is on the inside of the skin

It's ringing like it's going to break.

Around the time of the lower string.

The sound of the ssissore

It resounds with a tingling sound.

While dropping the branches you don't need,

The moon is also getting thinner.

In the round of the lunar calendar,

The field draws a circle of prayer.

One red fruit,

Put it in the palm of your hand,

"Will it be sweet today?" he mutters.

The moon floating in the sky and

"Another moon" (tomato) that bears fruit on the ground.

The two shine on each other,

When the night dawns, again,

The dream of the species begins.