Plow of God,
who tills the fasting
soul

and clears the stones
from beneath your sharp blade,

breathe into the stone mounds
and the Brač field
the salt of endurance.
 
Sow dragon seed,
plant angel wings.

May whatever sprouts
grow slowly
into the thirsty eye of dreams
and the crystal of snows.

Let the fruit be  
small, desiccated,
bittersweet.

May the spirits of table and hills
break unleavened bread
in the clearings.

Like mica embraced by an olive tree,
a kiss shared by
two mouths.

The way the sea
caresses the island,
slowly, steadily,
 
so shall we,
children of God’s providence,
come to love ourselves again.