A SONG TO THE LAND
A land which devours its inhabitants And flows with milk and honey and blue skies, Sometimes itself stoops to plunder The sheep of the poor.
A land sweetened by its clods of soil, Yet all its seashores salty, like the tears That its lovers offered it: All they had to give.
The white squill is again in bloom There, on the lonely road; The jasmine will bring back the fragrance Of its fields lost in time.
A land sweetened...
Every spring, its ragworts return To conceal all the wrinkles on its face; In bright light will the summer breeze Caress the sadness of its stones.
Autumn returns with heavy clouds To enfold all its gardens in gray, And the winter will draw itself down Over those whom its weeping eyes have guarded. The white squill is again bloom…
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