The walkers walk the walk of those before,
no matter, be they local.... or from far.
They talk the talk, but not all know the core.
Not all can see the soil’s inward star.
The hillside’s and the valleys’ roadside’s gems,
may punctuate our memories at length?
They cannot show to all from where it stems.
They cannot show from where we find the strength.
The locals and the visitors alike,
turn blind eyes to the stark reality.
Can any reconstructed dry-stane dike,
reflectively, in truth be Quality.
In some ways we abhor, ”Tourists”’ invasions...
And yet we all conform to these conservative frustrations?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem