The Barren Fields And in the autumn of the afternoon, He waits, he waits, And watches for The cattle yet to grace the hills, The birds not seen yet in the skies, The fig-tree failing yet to bud… In distant skies are storks who know The seasons they must follow, who Obey the times appointed in their lives, And doves, swifts, thrushes who all know To move and sway with seasons’ changes, Yet now the seasons change and halt All of their own petulant accord. The ground declares it should be soft, The plants complain they are not growing, Land which will not drink of rain decries Its own sad, barren state… In the fields he waits while all Around him are the stumps of growth Aborted and the fallow fields Of careless inattention and The hard, infertile land of dull Hearts and deaf, enclosed ears. Lift Your Eyes Look: the harvest… It looms, in minute kernels Locked away in desert lands, In hints of teardrops somewhere in clouds Still too shy to show themselves… Listen: the people… The people cry: The harvest is gone and still We’re not saved. The summer is passed. Where are we now? Somewhere you are, In limbo’s dull season, In valleys of bones and slaughter where One day will the bridegroom come Amid the songs of the joyful who Await the feast that will then burst From barren grounds and desert lands And fountains which will break forth from Clouds too shy now to show themselves. There will then be feasting. There will then be rain.