Cançó De Bressol

«In the morning dew, at noon heat, in the afternoon the mosquitoes: I don't want to be a farmer.» And I who fell asleep in your arms with my mouth stuck to your chest. The love of a man had already united us before that winter morning when I was born. The memory of that time, the wind doesn't sweep it away: when you saved bread to give me butter. «In the morning dew, at noon heat, in the afternoon the mosquitoes: I don't want to be a farmer.» Lullaby that already spoke to me about my grandfather who sleeps at the bottom of a ravine, of a dusty road, of a white cemetery, and of vineyards, wheat fields, and olive trees. Of a virgin on a peak, of roads and shortcuts, of all your brothers who died in the war. «In the morning dew, at noon heat, in the afternoon the mosquitoes: I don't want to be a farmer.» You are the daughter of the dry wind and a dry land. Of a land that you have never been able to forget despite the long journey your blood brothers made you walk, your language brothers, and you still want to die listening to larks covered in the dust of that poor land. «In the morning dew...»