Come over here, my child.
Jump onto my shoulders.
The mist is rising.
Daybreak at hand.
Let us run to the sea
To watch the faraway ships.
They come to load our crops.
It is the month of harvests.
Your melancholy, my child,
Will always be keen on the fragrance of soil;
And towards the seductive coastal waves
That come baiting your imagination,
The wind will always carry a handful of dust of the country.
And it will take away your whims
From those seafarers consuming themselves at sea
And each of your days will feel the fragrance of soil.
But you shall have to sweat for this in the cornfield
To plough your dreams
And knead your daily bread.
Come, my child, forget the sea,
Grasp scythes and sickles
And a fraternal garden will open its arms for you.
You will be nobody's stranger any more.
You will meet the beloved face
and your reason to live will have its beauty.
In you turn, you will take your children
To contemplate the sea and you will understand
That pasture lands, as well, are food for souls.
And you will be able to come under the olive tree
To rejoin your ancestors
In the noble and infinite peace
Of Work- tedious but done
Le modèle du vers incontournable de votre superbe poème est celui de Shakespeare : Music is a food for love.
J'ai donc bâti un pentamètre iambique : That 'pas-ture 'lands as 'well are 'food for 'souls.
Je me suis permis de le mettre en exergue, car c'est le vers où vient s'engloutir tout le poème.