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Past the grain fields clanks the old train,
and it goes beyond the fertile valley;
then it vanishes amid the swaying hills,
not too far from the massive castle
built by the Normans, and it's pelted by rain,
washing the pollen off the golden yarrows.


I saw many wild kids playing with the yarrows,
laughing and hurling them at the passing train;
these rascals weren't intimidated by the rain
as the scorching sun reappeared in the valley...
reaching the steaming walls of the massive castle,
all robins were happy to take flight over the hills.


Somehow the lilacs survived on the eastern hills,
and quick relief eased the discontented appearance of the yarrows,
their drooping stems struggle to stand erect by the stately castle
only to be brought back to life by the whistling train;
but many were taken away by the flood straight to the valley...
they were too feeble to challenge the fury of the rain. 


Some occasianal sunray invited the quails to defy the rain,
as if harmony had a chance to return to the misty hills;
and they fluttered their wet wings and departed from the valley.
By instinct, throngs of butterflies flocked to the joyful yarrows;
people returning from the big city saw that spectacle from the train,
dreaming of a quiter past life inside the protective walls of the castle.


Falcons were the quickest and safest messangers of the castle,
they carried letters in their strong beaks despite of the rain;
and they never were distracted by anything, but they were faster than a train...
the journey was long...many days not soaring over the andulating hills,
or watching the dames of many charms picking up lovely yarrows;
and those gentry faces missed their adored falcons gone to the remote valley.  


The early-risers, peasants with callous hands, left the semi-dark valley;
and climbing the rocky slopes abundant with olive groves that led to the castle,
and walking they captured meadows swarming with awakening, gleeful yarrows...
remembering how sad and miserable they were being soaked by the pouring rain!
They sought shelter, but no tree stretched their brenches like they protected the hills; 
oh, they didn't mind the whistling and the clink-clank of the early morning train! 


Valley subsidized to darkness, finally clears of the boring rain;
castle guarded by the falcons disappears in the tenebrous hills...
yarrows fall asleep and cannot hear the whistle the distant train.


Entered in Jared Pickett's contest, " The Sestina "
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