Today I stood in an old cemetery:
Not a wreath, just a few crosses on the consecrated place!
Only wild green wove rampantly unsparingly
The carpet around the graves hill wave.
Mas creeping here still arches, bow to bow,
That smooths itself out like after the storm;
Then the plow furrows the holy ground,
Drawn by the clumsy, limbed creature.
And in the time when the south wind blows from the mountain,
A golden streak rustles here from ears of corn
At the head of those so sown in the light
And ripen towards completion there.
