Читать книгу Cardos y lluvia - Kate Clanchy - Страница 29

Hast Thou seen her, great Jew,

who art called the One Son of God?

Hast Thou seen on thy way the like of her

Labouring in the distant vineyard?

The load of fruits on her back,

a bitter sweat on brow and cheek,

and the clay basin heavy on the back

of her bent poor wretched head.

Thou hast not seen her, Son of the carpenter,

who art called the King of Glory

among the rugged western shores

in the sweat of her food’s creel.

This Spring and last Spring

and every twenty Springs from the beginning,

she has carried the cold seaweed

for her children’s food and the castle’s reward.

And every twenty autumns gone

she has lost the golden summer of her bloom,

and the Black Labour has ploughed the furrow

across the white smoothness of her forehead.

And thy gentle church has spoken

about the lost state of her miserable soul,

and the unremitting toil has lowered

her body to a black peace in a grave.

And her time has gone like a black sludge

seeping through the thatch of a poor dwelling:

the hard Black Labour was her inheritance;

grey is her sleep to-night.