Blueprint Woodcarvers Bench

S'Ardia

My land? I do not feel an exile poet, a lost soul without a home. And though I leave my heart in different places, my house is unique. My land instead extends the ages of my life instead of the space defined and final. So my country is an island surrounded by sea and windy course. And 'the land dry and stingy, hard to beat, without failure, no confusion, if not one that leaves the view of passersby. Trembles in the spring and turns in the winter when the water rises and hits the rocks, conquers kidney and threatens the coasts. Turns green as the color was very rare in the summer heat. Yet the sun that burns not detract. And 'the man who has to squeeze in his presence and treat it like a son to eat. Or as a mother, so his flocks can produce food, clothes and new generations. My land is a pregnant belly lies deep within the seed, protects the naconde the world as it is not so if they can profit time to die there will be only too slowly. And - as a mother imminent - it is beautiful, a beauty that can not be stopped but only capture the eyes of a second and fell in love or losing it forever. My land comes in as if you recognize her, as if rivedessi old mother after years of separation and the embrace task almost melted love slowed down to survive his absence. It 's a virgin running of intense and loud music, dancing and ridiculous mythological stories. Terminating the legs with modesty and faux bewilderment but dreams of being a woman in love. E 'death vehement, that intrigues you with tales of cliffs and caves, secret caves under the cliffs, and giant waves of ancient peoples, of wars that have left nothing but rocks and physical features. It 's the wrinkled old woman sitting on chair, low straw and wood made to her by her husband, who collects the long white hair in the black scarf, black skirt swollen dark years in those wrinkles. She smiles at passing as he wonders who is the stranger. E 'Sa Janas that exit the church, kissing the heart of Christ and a bag of grain on his chest, that the invoices do not get confused as the island continent. This is my land. A promise which remains without fulfillment. It takes the meaning, turning them, emptied them, overwhelms them and return them to you. So you can not call home. But ground. Where the roots are planted. My land.