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We are people made of the soil, covered by the skies.
Our bodies grow wild flowers and green reeds to cover our homes.
We are made of the soil, from which we are endlessly reborn.
A rose from the end of the world blooms in our ample, meadow hearts.
Winds blow through our bodies, turning mills, lulling rivers asleep.
Do not touch these muddy eyes of mine - you shall see the invisible.
Keep your hands off - you may be fear-stricken by silence.
We are people made of the soil, heavy with a rising mountain.
Keep your hands off - this mulberry wine will intoxicate you with sleeplessness.
Take this handful of wheat and give me a drop of water in return.
Take these two sunflowers and a whole ocean invisible to your eyes.
Do not twist this hair of mine unless your hands can stand the pain of a thousand thorns.
Do not touch me unless you want to feel the bites of my corn teeth.
This body yields acacia blossoms and blooming meadows under your feet.
We are people made of the soil, over and over and over again.
http://www.windows99.org.rs/people.htm
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