On Sundays I have breakfast with oranges and... JOAN OF IBARBOUROU

Little boy that you went to the farms

and climbed the wide trees

as I used to climb when I was

a free, wild little girl:

Come here little boy, I long for

for you to dump your basket on my lap.

Ask for the highest price you want.

Ah how good the smell of oranges!

To my distant and quiet village,

orange groves so tight surround,

that in August they look like gold,

and in December of orange blossoms.

I grew up breathing that scent

and it still seems to run in my blood.

Small green oranges,

as a child threaded into necklaces.

Then life took me away,

I have become sad and slow.

What a deep nostalgia oppresses me

when I smell the scent of oranges!

Yes to other payments far away from yours,

Indian, someday they will take you,

and you're not happy and you sigh

to return to your old fondness,

and one afternoon in a breath of wind

the taste of your mountains assaults you,

you will already know amazed little Indian,

what the word "nostalgia" means!

JOAN OF IBARBOUROU

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