My field is golden…
Like flaring flames
Wheat is on fire,
Yet not burning.
My field is golden…
The sky is aflame,
The soil splintered
Under the saplings.
My field is golden…
Spikes filed in fours
Amber in four rows
Clad in sunshine.
My field is golden…
Wasp, bee, hornet,
Rush like lightning
Through the awns.
My field is golden…
There, with the wind,
A canary soars aloft
From the sea of gold.
Hush, golden field,
Time out, ripe turf,
Let me glean the gold,
With a silver scythe.
Daniel Varoujan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
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