The village is still and the rice is moving. The vivid rice supports the home with leaves and colors. Standing on the river embankment at the head of the village and looking far into the distance, the green sky is like a fire burning in the countryside.

It is another harvest season, and the ground is filled with golden rice.

The moment the rice is ground into white rice, countless new lives truly enter our lives.

The green of the seedlings in my hometown is a burning color.

Growing upward and toward the sun is their pursuit that will never stop throughout their lives.

The wind overturned the structure of the rice and stirred up the complex of the rice. I followed rice's youth all the way and walked slowly in rice's eyes.

In the paddy field where my mother had moved, the green seedlings stood up row by row, neat and well-proportioned, like a green carpet.

Rice is transformed into a substance called rice, and air nourishes human beings and their long history.