The smell of bales of alfalfa on the wind does come through,
in the middle of the sky at twelve o'clock the sun hangs true,
a red tractor draws a dusty line in the field
and against the burning sand I cannot my eyes shield
and it's a lovely day and the sky open and blue,
it's silent in the yard and the peace cannot last
and this is what I do remember from my past
where there is great pleasure in everything I do,
in the middle of the sky at twelve o'clock the sun hangs true.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem