Camí Avall

Ripening the wheat, summer was born, the roses were dyeing the fields; they called her Solitude, Rose, Maria, and with a bouquet of flowers she went downhill. Downhill there's a turn and he was waiting for her, they called him Peter, John, Louis, or William, holding hands cut far from their people. Downhill the flowers remain, they will be covered by the dust carried by the wind. But one day they told them: 'No need to sow, this year your fields won't yield wheat, you need to trade the plow for a rifle.' Downhill in the morning a soldier leaves. He burned and killed as he aged, until another tyrant before him; they buried him one day in a well with a hundred others. Downhill without a goodbye no one put a cross, it wasn't necessary. She cried for the man's death and for the fields where wheat didn't grow. Along the path will come young hands, to dry their eyes and plow the fields. And once again wheat and roses will grow covering the fertile graves of the soldiers: an old man dies, two children are born. And everything loses the smell of burnt. Downhill a dead man. Downhill a memory of the past remains. And today the wheat ripens, summer begins and the roses dye the fields; they call her Solitude, Rose, Maria, and with a bouquet of flowers she goes downhill.