America, from a grain

    of maize you grew

    to crown

    h spacious lands

    the ocean foam.

    A grain of maize was your geography.

    From the grain

    a green lance rose,

    h gold,

    to grace ts

    of Peru s yelloassels.

    But, poet, let

    ory rest in its shroud;

    praise h your lyre

    ts granaries:

    sing to tchen.

    First, a fine beard

    fluttered in the field

    above tender teeth

    of the young ear.

    ted

    and fruitfulness burst its veils

    of pale papyrus

    t grains of laughter

    migh.

    to tone,

    in your journey,

    you returned.

    Not to terrible stone,

    the bloody

    triangle of Mexican death,

    but to tone,

    sacred

    stone of your kitchens.

    tter,

    strengtritious

    cornmeal pulp,

    you ted

    by the wondrous hands

    of dark-skinned women.

    herever you fall, maize,

    he

    splendid pot of partridge, or among

    country beans, you light up

    t

    your virginal flavor.

    Oo bite into

    teaming ear beside the sea

    of distant song and deepest z.

    to boil you

    as your aroma

    spreads through

    blue sierras.

    But is there

    no end

    to your treasure?

    In chalky, barren lands

    bordered

    by the sea, along

    t,

    at times

    only your radiance

    reacy

    table of the miner.

    Your light, your cornmeal, your hope

    pervades Americas solitudes,

    and to hunger

    your lances

    are enemy legions.

    ithin your husks,

    like gentle kernels,

    our sober provincial

    cs ured,

    until life began

    to she ear.