Chicago Review, June 22nd, 2002
translated by Breon Mitchell
Off the farm lane now, where the green boughs descend to eye-level, isolated from the rest of the world, where the song of the lark, the cries of the farmers, even the lowing of the cattle reach their ears only distantly.
They have taken their leave of the garden party to stroll through the fields, arm in arm, from the heights down to the plain, through a slight haze. The light envelops the earth and every object, the gentle hills long the river and last year's foliage, dusty fields too; they see a flock of chickens wire; the sandy soil is furrowed, barren, rou...
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