Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun here where I belong
I revel in the tranquillity of this special place and wonder
If I should pierce the glimmering surface headlong.
I wish this serenity were broken this summer
By the chance to glimpse the wondrous moose;
I crave the chance to see that majestic wanderer.
But this thought leads me astray and I abuse
The pleasures given to me by this birdsong
And the breathing forest the season has set loose.
The intense heat troubles the horizon,
On the left, bulls race toward the water supply
Trampling everything on their rush.
On the right, a breathless shepherd wanders
With his faithful sheepdog and his emblematic beret.
Farmers relentlessly harvest cork
Braving the furnace of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, villagers try to hide under the sparse shades
During the zenith’s hours.
Though, at the end of the dusty road, drawn
Between an ocean of olive trees
Stands a modest village
Of pure limed white walls and ochre roofs.
I stop in front of a wooden door,
An elderly woman sobs on hearing the engine noise
Yet enfolds me vigorously in her tender arms…