#translation by someone called sotelino but i intervened

[child-of-hurin]

In the sluggish, lazy afternoons on the farm, somewhere off in the woods, I would escape my family’s apprehensive eyes; I would soothe my feverish feet in the moist dirt, cover my body with leaves, and, lying in the shade, I would sleep with the stillness of an ailing plant curved under the weight of a red blossom; weren’t those stems surrounding me fairies, filled with patience, silently keeping vigil over my adolescent slumber? Which ancient urns were releasing the protective voices calling out to me from the veranda? What was the use of those calls, if faster, more active messengers rode the wind skillfully, cutting through the threads of the atmosphere? (When ripe, my slumber was gathered with the religious voluptuousness of gathered fruit.)

Raduan Nassar, "Ancient tillage" (Lavoura arcaica), 1975