It is the wheatfields that keep coming back,
always sticking out behind the pines,
beyond the mountains,
in the sunsets.
Nostalgia of clear light
and greyhounds of long shadows.
Those memories chasing me
smell of dry soil recovering life,
wheat in the springtime,
fidelity to plains.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This fine word painting reminds me of what George Eliot, wrote, 'We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it'. Take care, Luis. Sandra