From The family of Pascual Duarte
Slow echoes of bells,
the tower pronounced golden retribution
while the red fields slumbered.
Clouds of birds climbed
the columns of the sky;
yellowed grass waved
stiffly in the dying wind.
This landscape is scurried
by the rattle of a teasel sun.
The lodger dust, windless, lingers.
A stream gurgles, tiny as parasols,
winding its remorse around the pall
and pang of birth. The bearers halt;
the wailing begins.
“Pascual, it is finished. We are dust”.
“Maria, kneel. While the earth accepts my father,
poppies shall tremble between your thighs.”