Campesina

With blows, the bell called for dawn, and you, down the road, on your way to the workshop, a siren is looking for you. Be careful, woman. Peasant. Seventeen years old. Peasant. Welder and tin. Peasant. Peasant. Peasant. Welding wire with wire, and not knowing why seven goes with five and four with three. From siren to siren they are lying to you. Peasant. If the wind and the oaks, peasant, know your name. Peasant. Peasant. Peasant. It's September, and the grapes are about to ripen. Presses and the winepress sing festive airs. Don't listen to the siren and go harvest. Peasant. Powdered face. Peasant. Newlywed. Peasant. Peasant. Peasant. The river longs for your face and your thirst, the flour on your hands and the must of your foot. Don't listen to the siren and turn back. Peasant. Wake up the wonder. Peasant. Jug on your shoulder. Peasant. Peasant. Peasant.