Old land sated with wars
dressed in harvest
and so sweet seasons.
Old land where fathers rest.
The woman spins flax and hopes
that the son will return home
and mary a local girl.
And she won't pray on the marble
where the fallen lie...
In the fields little blonde heads will play.
That's how life is.
My old land where the church bell
no longer tolls the knell.
Weary men coming back from the harvest
filled with the scent of sweet seasons...
That's how time goes.
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Comments3
Beautiful and so classical in nature it pulls hard at my memories and emotions from where I have spent so much time
A simple texte with a rare sensitivity !
Beautiful
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