Theatre of the Millo Seco (Botos)

I am in the little field of my mother 
Her field touches 
oaks of the valley
and I touch the faces of my corn

Opening corn’s faces 
so that my hands touch its braille letters
The face of corn is all in braille
the corn wrote it 

Fires will burn this evening 
burn the dry husks of the corn
and I will learn to read
Sheep will wait by the trough 
for they know corn’s feature, corn’s humility

corn’s dichten

grain’s 

granite too