The Yellow Hills
Let’s meet in the yellow hills
near the sea. Let’s picnic in
the yellow hills. We could
look up to the sky and make
small talk. We could tell each
other our hopes and dreams.
Stretched out on a blanket
under the warm sun. We
could pretend we’re dead
or like some immovable
force. Under a leafy tree
in the yellow hills we’ll rest.
In these hills black ants eat
the crumbs we leave behind.
Their tiny shadows could only
be observed under a microscope.
In the yellow hills we leave
our troubles behind. Not far
from shore we feel the breeze
that comes from the sea. We rest
here where the leafy tree’s shadow
seems to swallow us whole.
The yellow hills protect us from
the dark times of the world.
5 comments:
The harmony and tension is oscillating in this beautiful poem. I came to think of “Starting from San Francisco” (Lawrence Ferlinghetti) and perhaps strangely pre English civil war poetry. Perhaps the lines
“In the yellow hills we leave
our troubles behind. Not far
from shore we feel the breeze
that comes from the sea. We rest
here where the leafy tree’s shadow
seems to swallow” us
made me think of that.
As a Swede in wintertime this left me with a distinct feeling of safe haven.
Good poem, full of emotion and good imagery.
Summer in Northern California... it certainly reminds me of that. God, what a lovely time. Comfort/ fear.
"Their tiny shadows could only be observed..." it's like the uncertainty principle unleashed on a picnic!
Sadness and beauty have always been my companions. "We could look up to the sky..." yes, we could
Thanks Jenny
I also come to think of Ferlinghetti and California. I have never been to California, but it sure seems like a fascinating place. Great poem, Luis.
This is a fine bit of writing. A paean to the repetitive 'yellow' hills. Reminiscent of the most lyrical of Lorca. I suspect there's a Spanish version of this.
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