Memories of SummerI remember that I saw the turtle doves
hidden in the midst of the already reaped grain
and that the heart feared for them
the watchman nearby, armed with a rifle.
“Turtledove,” I said, “don’t be afraid
if I send you flying with my shouts.
Better a startled movement that carries you off
in flight to rivers free of people”.
Carts were passing slowly
loaded with golden wheat sheaves;
the grandfather on the threshing floor
since early morning
tied the rested oxen to the yoke and a boulder
of Limbara granite with the leather strap,
made them drag it and they seemed
contented with that task. I, seated
a bit apart in the shade of a hut,
saw the dust covered men
in a vortex of straw; they looked like
devils armed with pitchforks.
He, the grandfather, watched attentively,
with his cap twisted on his head,