The farming of the farmer, the sound of the birds and the cold of the dawn 
wake me up in the beautiful field were I grew up. 

I already missed hearing the howling of my old grandfather's Bermejo 
horse, and the smell of firewood just put to the fongon by my sweet
grandmother. 

When I got up with my bare feet, and sat in the old kitchen looking at the 
horizon, I remembered my infant self, falling behind my grandfather's 
animals. 

I used to beat them to make them obey me, but they only ran away from me 
... I cried on my grandmother's skirts because the animals ran away, but she 
told me that they ran away because the animals respected me. 

All this reminds me of my old countryside when from every year to one day 
​I visit it.