By the calle del Azahar

—by Chance Street—

I go to the Val de Acederas.


Clear is the morning:

white clouds in blue


the birds sing,

the turtledove coos:

the music of the little valley.


The thyme is in bloom.

Forget-me-nots, fennel,

rosemary and rye,

the poppy fields


—red, workers—

to the month of May.


Crystalline goes down the stream

among the new black poplars.

Where have you been,

crafty devils,

all winter?


It’s springtime!


Goes by the swift


taking out in the sun

their diamonds

the crickets,

earth spreads out,


its green fields.


Ah, cereal

sprout strongly the hearts

from the winter cold!


Ah, what a good

senara that of this year,

the hand that sowed it!


The harvest this summer

will be plentiful and golden

under the August heat.



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