A Metate Song
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not, truly!
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not, truly!
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not, truly!
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not, truly!
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not, truly!
On every side They are,
The Trues, the rain-commanders;
Do you not hear their drum?
Because of that you will see
This year the vapor floating;
Because of that you will see
This year the drizzling rain.
Is it not beautiful?
Is it not truly!
In all the fields the corn upspringing,
Like the young pine it comes up;
Like the green aspen;
In all the fields the corn upspringing,
Tall like the tail of the thrush!
Tall like the road-runner’s tail,
In all the fields the corn upspringing!