A land which devours its inhabitants
And flows with milk and honey and blue skies,
Sometimes itself stoops to plunder
The sheep of the poor.
A land sweetened by its clods of soil,
Yet all its seashores salty, like the tears
That its lovers offered it:
All they had to give.
The white squill is again in bloom
There, on the lonely road;
The jasmine will bring back the fragrance
Of its fields lost in time.
A land sweetened...
Every spring, its ragworts return
To conceal all the wrinkles on its face;
In bright light will the summer breeze
Caress the sadness of its stones.
Autumn returns with heavy clouds
To enfold all its gardens in gray,
And the winter will draw itself down
Over those whom its weeping eyes have guarded.
The white squill is again bloom…