many times we were poor
there was no money for clothes or music, but
god's grand drill
fell against the morning

the pigeons disbanded
as if they saw
the weasel or the hawk

a piece of me went into bitterness
as in the mill well
where the snake infected
drinking water

I was only a few years old and it was already
rigorously old woman

I knew the soaring could crush my head
make our sheep sick
take away the summer, the little happiness

but still I always looked up
and softly he said
yes sir, destruction come to me
what should come
I am your furrow, sir,
I am your groove.