The echos of the heartland call me back,
to those fields of wild rice lining the horizon.
For they sway in the distance awaiting the harvest,
still in the silence of night.
Winter comes, hence the sheaves take a bow,
fading to darkness towards sleeping ground,
Lurking in the marsh they warm each other,
hugging the winds of change.
Spring may redeem the will of denial,
Which blossoms with fervor during the frost,
For man is formed in the foundry of fears,
Poured from the missisippi's tears.
Summer casts porosity of sense which kindles knowledge through its flames,
Leaving scars that give forth life,
On green pastures that will to rest.
Fall is here and thanksgiving near,
Yet I feel undressed,
For the cries of the prairie are bestowed upon me,
Relinquishing I from the quest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem