A boy, sitting on a rock, eats his bread while looking

             behind the mountains;

a bird anchored its shadow on a red roof;

the fisherman cast his line into the sea;

the hunter shot in the forest once.

They all expect their catch — each of them his own

so that they’ll exchange products tomorrow, day after

tomorrow, beautiful in the light, good workers and

happy in the modesty of their virtue.

The pregnant water pitcher, under the tree by the shore,

freezes its water and its wide mouth, closed with

a pine cone, is blessed by the mouths of the poets

and the fishermen who kissed it.