LOST in this mountain valley, we have struggled too long for bread. Here corn grows sparse and yellow the valley is too narrow and we have driven Our plows vainly against the flanks of the hill. No use to struggle further, O my brothers: instead lie down together here and rest, and some day when the earth has grown as cold as the dead craters of the moon, these hills will wrinkle like the wrinkles on a forehead. Drawing together somewhat like a finger against a wrinkled thumb, these hills will squeeze the valley out between them. There will be for us magnificent sepulture, O my kin. Cold hills already lie staring down at our cornfields covetously. |