Threshing (Wreathed Quatrains) Poem by Gert Strydom
Threshing (Wreathed Quatrains)
With all the green corn stalks neatly cut off
in the old big loft the sweet smell of maize,
brings some grace and the blowing wind is soft,
oft the grass is still the colour of baize,
some cows graze, the threshing machine whines on,
its task is not done under a cobalt blue sky,
time does fly until the last stalks are gone,
hot like stone is the earth and hours pass by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 11:25:16 PM # 1.0.0.1119
