Passing by a patch of land, // like similar farmland,
Yellow and green.
Similar houses, washed away // by wind and rain.
The same bonfire, a dog,
A tractor, sunset,
No people, no shadows, no smoke.

Taste a mouthful of homemade food's fragrance,
Watch transparent bubbles rising // from the bottom of the glass,
Go to the long-illed beds, // in company without months.
Let people look // at that tasteful life under sun,
Or perhaps the same, // square building.
Some call this the barn.
Around it is iron skin, // blue and gray paint,
With a hint // of rust showing through the trend.

Everything is as usual,
Like it has been for several centuries,
Ever new, as old.

Gazing, with a few minutes of trance,
The long wait has not yet been compensated // with a moment.
While goats raise their hooves,
Hear maturity calling on the plains,
Cows lower their heads, // waiting for the train to pass.
Clicking sounds, passing by, // that piece,
A space surrounded by barren lands.

Only in moments of approach,
Between illness and whispers,
Those fish, sunken, in space.