The Return
The land offers the caress of a paternal greeting . . .
While the mule grazes the wretched road grass
and the mountain boasts before the late winter sun,
like a village crone shows off her linen apron.
A kind sky and a tender zephyr . . .
The cicada rests burns under the pine tree,
and the crowded herds slowly step
towards the priestly horn music.
Carrying timber on his shoulders for supper,
the shepherd—whose absence takes less than a day—
walks calmly towards the farmstead.
When they see him, the family offers their praise . . .
while the dog—impelled by loyal friendship—
wags his tail in circles of joy.
Siesta
Only a single clock’s beat: the belfry,
marking the village’s joyous tedium
which, under the summer sun, bitterly crackles
with the distant attitude of an unflappable old man . . .
Sitting by the door the apothecary dozes . . .
At the park nearby the hen clucks
and hornbeam timber in the fireplace burns,
while the reverend reflects on his prayer book.
There is peace at home. An undisturbed sky
blesses the work, doles out the sweat . . .
Mothers, sisters, aunts all sing while they wash in unison
the clothes farmers will suffer on Sunday . . .
And the lazy donkey which steps on the sidewalk
runs away—kicking about—from the neighborhood dogs.
Dawn
Smoking on the welcoming stove
the rustic candles . . . Early rising timber
infusing tasty local flavor
while breakfast approaches the calling land.
Bouncing against the hills the daily chant
of the yeoman who, for a moment, drops his yoke and dreams.
Phyllis prepares the loom. Tethys, while milking,
offers God the milk of her prayer.
The valley distressed by its nocturnal pilgrims,
the cattle, slow and foreboding,
leaves the stables. The young breeze stretches . . .
And like a piously awoken shepherdess,
—her eyes misty in sweet idleness—
an ecstatic Dawn gazes upon the stars in heaven.
Translated by Diego Jourdan Pereira
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