I'm Walking Through The Valley. A Cap On My Head

I'm walking through the valley. A cap on my head, A dark-skinned hand in a suede glove. In the distance, the pink steppes are glowing, The calm blue river stretches far and wide. I'm a carefree fellow. I don't need anything. I just want to listen to songs, sing along in my heart. As long as the weather stays light and cool, As long as my young posture doesn't bend. I'll walk beyond the road, walk under the cliffs - I see so many vibrant men and women! The rakes are whispering, the scythes are whistling... "Hey, poet, do you have what it takes? It's lovelier on the ground. Quit swimming in the sky. If only you loved labor the way you love open space. Were you never a villager? Were you never a peasant? Swing a scythe, show us what you've got." Ah, a plume is not a rake; ah, a scythe is not a pen - But a scythe can come up with some excellent lines. Under a spring sun, under a spring cloud People read them every year. To hell with my English suit. I get rid of it. Come on, give me a scythe, I'll show you - Am I not your kind? Am I not your kin? Don't I cherish the memory of my village? I don't care about pits, I don't care about bumps. How nice it is, in the morning mist, To trace lines of grass with a scythe in the field, So that a horse and a sheep can read them. These lines are songs, these lines are words. That's why I'm so happy when I think of no one at all, Because every cow can read those thoughts, Paying me back with warm milk.