Corral of dead, poor walls,
also made of clay, poor
corral where the scythe mowing not only a cross in the desert field
point your destination. Alongside these walls
seek
under the lash of the gale
sheep in a flock passing transhumant,
and break them in the vain story,
like waves, rumors vain.
As an island in June, you
encircles the golden sea of \u200b\u200bears that flutter in the breeze,
and the lark sings the song you
harvest.
low rain When the sky at low field
also on Holy grass where sickle
does not shut your corner,
poor dead poultry!,
and feel in their bones the claim
irrigation of life. Salvan
your fences of masonry and mud
the winged seeds,
or bring them to you pity the birds hidden
and grow poppies, pinks
, camomile, heather, thistles
among crosses cast aside, no more than
birds Free grass. Cavan
only in your weed stalks, poultry
sacred, to a soul that suffered in the world
sow grain planting
then over the long fallow!
near you in the way of living,
not like you, with walls, no fence,
where come and go, and
laughing or crying, breaking with their laughter or silence their cries
immortal in your hand!
After the sun has slowly taken and ground and rises to the sky
the moor at the time of memory, touch
prayer and rest, the rough stone cross
your clay walls is, like a guard
never sleep,
of sleep watching the countryside.
There is no cross on the church of the living,
around which the village sleeps;
the cross, like a faithful dog, harbors dreams of the dead
penned up in heaven.
And from the night sky, Christ, Pastor Sovereign
, with countless eyes
sparkling, recounts the sheep! Poor
dead poultry between walls, made of the same clay
,
only a cross
distinguishes your destiny in the desert solitude of the country!
Manuel de Unamuno, English writer and philosopher.
