I have never seen myself,
and I am sure no one never will see,
as a friend of people used to easy laughs
and to those affected pats on the back.
I prefer austere, even stern people,
like the land I was born and grew up in.
Land of shrubs, narrow creeks and bare hills,
very brief a spring and summer, dry autumn
and then so endless and sleepy a winter.
Land unknown to purple-brown grapes,
bright persimmons and fat peaches,
where do not flow the milk and honey, just
some honest meagre sheaves by the harvest.
The song I sing is only heard by my equals,
some few ones,
who are not accustomed to false praise
and empty words,
but prompt effective and friendly deeds.
Published in The Provo Canyon Review, Fall 2016 issue.
Published in Indiana Voice Journal, May 2017 issue