Work Poem by Dritëro Agolli

Under his nails the dirt was dark blue,
Dirt from the fields and meadows,
Blue like the lines on the globe,
Like the strings of a violin.
Nor can it be washed out
With soap and water in the bath.
Dirt entered the furrows of those hands silently
Like a plough breaking through the soil.
I know those warm fingers,
Those good fingers.
My father's nails were blue with dirt
Even as he lay in his coffin.
He looked as if he were not dead at all,
But simply dozing before setting out for the fields
As he would do at dawn,
Lying back with his head in the palms of his hands.