Country Of Rains

Country of rains and foul weather; nomadic silence; like a white loaf hung in the zenith, your moon is broken. Beyond the ploughland grows the raspberry-coloured goosefoot. A ripe star glows golden on the boughs of cloud, like a fruit. Again along the highroad, your sorrow notwithstanding, I breathe with bliss the smell of the summer corn along the water turning blue. The marsh mist smokes and thickens. But in the felt, melodious dark your hills are satisfied, in animal dumbness replete.