an Indian Princess
The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says - he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me.Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature
She wears red moccasins and two braids down her back. Her house is in a walled garden, out in the fields. In the afternoons she wanders down the road where the pavement breaks up into gravel. She dances with the setting sun, as she always has. They call her Paccallattabol.
She knows where the road twists into the orange grove. She walks between the fruitless trees. They are blossoming now with the spring rains. The scent of the flowers is powerful and sweet. The fields go on past the trees, across the dirt roads muddy from the torrents of rain that poured all night. The cypress trees splash with the purple clouds in puddles of pink gold that sing from dips in the roads. The grass and flowers in the fields grow taller than her.
A bird catches her eye as it soars on the wind. She wanders between a row of cypress trees along the road into a field. The setting sun crowns her braided head with streams of light. Standing there among the golden rays upon the fields she is immortal. She wears at once the radiance of youth and the wrinkles of old age. She is tiny, shrivelled, with the wisdom and silence of her many years, ready to pass from this world into the next. She is a child in the passionate throws of her first love. The smell of the damp earth lingers with the scent of flowers. He first kissed her at this hour, sunset.
She finds her way through the fields before she becomes lost in the dark. She returns to her house behind the garden wall. Tonight the rooms are empty and silent. Her head remains crowned in golden rays, stuck in the clouds.
Porque el campo es el edén
She wears red moccasins and two braids down her back. Her house is in a walled garden, out in the fields. In the afternoons she wanders down the road where the pavement breaks up into gravel. She dances with the setting sun, as she always has. They call her Paccallattabol.
She knows where the road twists into the orange grove. She walks between the fruitless trees. They are blossoming now with the spring rains. The scent of the flowers is powerful and sweet. The fields go on past the trees, across the dirt roads muddy from the torrents of rain that poured all night. The cypress trees splash with the purple clouds in puddles of pink gold that sing from dips in the roads. The grass and flowers in the fields grow taller than her.
A bird catches her eye as it soars on the wind. She wanders between a row of cypress trees along the road into a field. The setting sun crowns her braided head with streams of light. Standing there among the golden rays upon the fields she is immortal. She wears at once the radiance of youth and the wrinkles of old age. She is tiny, shrivelled, with the wisdom and silence of her many years, ready to pass from this world into the next. She is a child in the passionate throws of her first love. The smell of the damp earth lingers with the scent of flowers. He first kissed her at this hour, sunset.
She finds her way through the fields before she becomes lost in the dark. She returns to her house behind the garden wall. Tonight the rooms are empty and silent. Her head remains crowned in golden rays, stuck in the clouds.
Porque el campo es el edén