Camino Abajo

The wheat fields were ripening, summer was born, poppies were dyeing the fields; they called her Soledad, Rosario, Maria, and with a bouquet of flowers she went down the road. Down the road there's a curve and he was waiting for her, they called him Pedro, Juan, Luis or Guillermo, his calloused hands will take her far from her people. Down the road the flowers remain, they will be covered by the dust brought by the wind. But one day they told them: 'You don't need to sow, this year your fields don't have to yield wheat, you need to exchange the plow for a rifle.' Down the road in the morning a soldier leaves. He burned and killed as he aged, until another shot before him; they buried him one day in a pit with a hundred others. Down the road 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 no longer grew. Along the road will come young hands, to dry her tears and work the fields. And once again wheat and poppies will grow covering the fertile graves of the soldiers: an old man dies, two children are born. And everything loses the smell of burnt. Down the road a dead man. Down the road a memory of the past remains. And today the wheat fields ripen, summer begins and the poppies dye the fields; they called her Soledad, Rosario, Maria, and with a bunch of flowers she goes down the road.