The Magyar Fallow

I walk on meadows run to weed,
on fields of burdock and mallow.
I know this rank and ancient ground -
this is the Magyar fallow.
I bow down to the sacred soil;
this virgin ground is gnawed I fear.
You skyward groping seedy weeds,
are there no flowers here?
While I look at the slumbering earth,
the twisting vines encircle me,
and scent of long dead flowers steep
my senses amorously.
Silence. I am dragged down and roofed
and lulled in burdock and in mallow.
A mocking wind goes whisking by
above the mighty fallow.

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