Threshing

trebbia

 

 

 

 

 

Always dear to me is thinking

and I am there little to run among golden fields
swaying in the hot desert wind.
The yellow color on the farmyard,
the sweet sound of threshing, the dust,
cries of children on the damp straw.
Tired sleep after endless days
of sun and games.
I dress with memories: the smell of wheat,
ancient scent of life, of emotions
that stop in the soul.
The soft sound of the millstone
Between curious looks and dusty sacks of flour.
And then the party, the music, the dances, the smiles,
the dinner, the essays and the memories
sweet forever enclosed.

23/07/2008

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