Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you,
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.
This is not the entire poem. It contains several more stanzas, no?
Swimming alone in the Duero, many years ago, I ran to my room to find this poem. “Where it seems the stones have dreams...” o my yes. Yes, as mr joyce would shout. Yes.