It's the sower. He is standing tall and stout
In the sunset's rays which are like flowing gold;
Before his feet are the fields of the fatherland
Spreading their unlimited nakedness.
His deep apron, full of wheat seeds like stars
Is wholly full. The thirsty ploughs of last year
Now are waiting for his wide fist, and that fist
Is opening upon the fields like a dawn.
Sower, sow in the name of your home's table,
Monday, September 27, 2010