Singsong of the land.
Through the window of the train, which would have carried her far away,
she saw her land – the land of her grandparents, of her memories
– pass before her eyes.
She saw red plains of clods turned inside out and, in the distance, slightly
wavy hills, green or bare, rocky hills; she saw the olive trees, a plenty
of them: old, wailing, big trees, with their branches eaten away by age,
ants and crickets – knotted, pierced and hollow branches.
Among lime-white farms, surrounded by spikes of stork’s-bills, she
saw rows of vines, bent by young, dark and light grapes’ bunches;
she saw circles of bees’ wings, turns of hands, of porous women
cries; untiring ballet of dancing hands, of vats, of black heavy vats
on mighty shoulders, of roughed, gnarled and red hands; and once again
land, sunny borderland, stony and fig-tree land, touched of white tuff’s
powder; land of sea, of an azure, deep sea; noise of fish, meeting place
of sea-gulls and fishermen; land of flat roofs, of hung clothes, of scattered
doves’ colours; land of old people, of little rascals, of unceasing
Land’s land, home land.