Happy Holidays
Once again, we would like to wish you a Merry Christmas with a poem, this time a melancholically autumnal one by the master Antonio Machado.
We pair it with an in-season grapevine.
From the Moorish city
behind the old walls,
ponder the silent afternoon
alone with my shadow and my sorrow.
The river runs
between shady orchards
and gray olive groves,
through the cheery fields of Baeza.
The vines bear golden shoots
over the red grapes.
The Guadalquivir, like a broken and diffuse
cutlass, shimmers and glints.
In the distance, the mountains sleep,
swathed in the fog,
a fog of autumn, maternal;
the hulking masses rest from their
stoniness.
on this mild November afternoon,
a pious afternoon, violet and violent.
The wind has shaken
the elm trees along the road,
the dust from the ground forming little pink whirlwinds.
The moon is rising
purplish, panting and full.
The little white paths
criss-cross and move away,
seeking the farmhouses scattered
through the mountain range’s valley.
Paths of the fields.
I can’t walk with her anymore.
Caminos. Antonio Machado
