America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
h spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
h gold,
to grace ts
of Peru s yelloassels.
But, poet, let
ory rest in its shroud;
praise h your lyre
ts granaries:
sing to tchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above tender teeth
of the young ear.
ted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
t grains of laughter
migh.
to tone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to terrible stone,
the bloody
triangle of Mexican death,
but to tone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
tter,
strengtritious
cornmeal pulp,
you ted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
herever you fall, maize,
he
splendid pot of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
t
your virginal flavor.
Oo bite into
teaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest z.
to boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
t,
at times
only your radiance
reacy
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades Americas solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
ithin your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
cs ured,
until life began
to she ear.