Cultivated Is My Valley

Cultivated Is My Valley Peaceful is the landscape and the lane that meanders amongst olive trees, stone walls neatly divide the land a bit for everyone, but not enough to make you rich. Here dogs only bark at night have cowardly, yellow eyes there is no wolf left in these subjugated canines. In Stockholm when spring comes ice shards fall off roof tops, split brains in half, gore on snow. On paradise islands too one has to look out for falling coco- nuts they can so easily kill a man; but here, in my valley, only petals of the almond tree flower fall. Birdsongs and breeze that caresses olive trees, now that’s peace, ok, so should I not be happy as I contemplate a carob tree? I see a woman bending down, weeding her potato field, clouds on the sky are as soft as the mustachio on a Romanian girl’s upper lip. All this herald peace so why shouldn’t I be happy, when seeing a flock of cows with full udders ready to be milked at five? Yet I dream of galloping horses on the pampas of Argentine, flying mane, flaring nostrils. This place I tell myself lacks passion, it’s too tame, or is it me that has been restrained by age?