From the fields some farmers are returning home; silent, worry etched on face and eye. We two lie side by side: the river and I. Beneath my heart some weary grass sleeps.
Quiet river. The waves seem quieter still! All the river's sorrow and weight have gathered today as dewdrops within me; he who lies beside the river is no farmer, no one's son or child, no woman's lover or husband; he has no country, no borders, he has only weariness.
After twilight peace descends on this field with evening. I am that forgotten piece of newborn warm bread, where the sky sleeps, where stars pour soft light without fear.