The cross of Gurb

Amidst the living bark, mountain's nature,

lies the incinerated beauty of autumn;

it’s like the wind singing an anthem,

with the same voice, joy of a foreign pasture.

The paths rise, crowning their summit,

creating beneath the mountain, the line of horizon;

paths of alfalfa and leaves of sorrow are born

and in the middle, the air, the wind that strongly caresses it.

The birds now return and announce the arrival

of a worry, the land, a crack in the plain,

as would a cunning April in dreams.

And now that the sun soothes the lush life,

now that nature speaks with a lazy voice,

dreams will shatter where lies the cross of Gurb.