The Village
Then, at his strong arm
I met his country folk;
so dear for him, the old peasants,
dirty or poor, the proud women which I’ve never understood.
Till then.
Me, in an elegant scarlet dress,
I was stepping through the rain as a queen, at his strong arm.
My clothes were wet on my body and my shoes full with water.
And when I looked at him,
I met a question mark on his face.
Smiling, I sent flying my shoes, my barefooted soles went straight on the grass, my arms rising as long as they could, embracing the rain.
And, for the first time,
my lungs were full with fresh air
and that helped me to have a healthy laugh.
Then I met the village
that was calling my man as a spell.
I threw away my long, yellow, green and red dresses,
so wearisome and so many,
and I rested as Mary, as Ann, as Ellen,
in that lightly coat that scents as field does,
as hay, as sun, as dew, as blossom trees,
as ruby wine, as autumn,
as slender love.
The coat of happiness.
Then, at his strong arm, I found my silence.
And my joy entered the door, the window, the chimney,
as an unexpected Santa Clause.
The joy comes from my depths, from our flesh and blood,
from my bulging womb,
on which you put your ear every evening, and over which you pass, suspicious,
your palm, from my red cheeks,
from my eyes that yell with joy:
,,I’m going to have a child !”
The Fates will gather around his cradle, where will fall leaves of serenity.
Mary, Savete, will bring him as gift weight and ripen fruits, ambrosia and nectar,
yellow from the quinces, red from the apples, orange from the pears,
the green of the youth and the blue of the water.They will bring him the wreath of their joy, the found way of the travelers.
One day, from our strong arms,
he will raise, easily,
and he will build his happiness.
Never a sand castle.
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