Golden Tuscan Sunrise

The morning rises like a fog,
As bread in a wooden bowl
On the earthen floor,
The mother’s steps resound
And the loaves of bread, covered by maple leaves,
Are placed in the mouth of the baking oven.
Still the lambs slumber
With stars in their eyes.
Still, the son’s plows are asleep.

But Mother Sun churns white butter for eternity on the porch steps,
Mother Sun allows time to roll on in the cool dew.
Whether in three hundred years or in three hours,
As the sun rises in the sky,
We too shall rise to pass along
In the arc of ash wood.

Mate Saule is so darn tiring to sing, but it's friggin beautiful.