It’s not father’s footstepNo, mother, what you hear
is not the hooves of the black mare
entering the courtyard,
it’s not father’s footstep entering the house,
his spurs still jingling on his feet.
Look
at all the rust on the rifle,
and on the point of the billhook,
and on the sheep shears,
and the pruning shears,
all the dust on the saddle,
the reins and the lasso,
on all the things he
hasn’t touched in so long.
No, mother, don’t listen to
that lamb that keeps bleating and bleating,
it too waiting for him in vain.
In vain I waited
for him in spring.
“Look at the grain, how nice
it is this year,” he told me, “look,
eight, ten shoots: