FIELD OF POPPIES

… This flare, this fan of blood and living lights that ful into us,
Where did he come, who brought it to us ...?
lighting them, between boundaries and wheats shines and marches a wandering god,
Ah, don't you see it ...?
It is as beautiful as a song of Alondra,
and as sweet and fertile as a line of living grass;
... the heart follows and continues, and the soul, taken away, turns on and burns;
Come, come, then, and pick me up,
that I go to the roads and the air, and, which deadly light, I am on the meadow;
... I, I, who who who and I live in a humble cane or rye foot,
In a rainfall,
In one, in a drop of love,
in this,
In this alone.
***
Antonio Justel Rodríguez
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