Golden in the midday light
The spiked field glows and swings
Ripe and full of grain in the summer wind
The glory of proud spikes
Bends to the ground and awaits
Covered in the dust of the heat, the coming mowing
But from far
The almighty hail is threatening with heavy clouds
To destroy the glory of the harvest with his army of ice
August's bitter guest
Comes down into the thicket of spikes
Hailstones break the spires with primal violence
The song of hail is fading
He spoke his verdict cold and white
A single spire sinks to the ground at his command
But in the ripe field
The spikes stand tight
Unbendingly they resist the hail in their strong bond