SHRINE AND FARM FAMILY IN BRITTANY, Francois Hippolyte Lalaisse. Nancy 1812-1884 Paris

“It is this, this endless heat and rousedness of physical sensation which keeps the body full and potent, and flushes the mind with a blood heat, a blood sleep. And this sleep, this heat of physical experience, becomes at length a bondage, at last a crucifixion. It is the life and the fulfilment of the peasant, this flow of sensuous experience. But at last it drives him almost mad, because he cannot escape.”  

--D.H. Lawrence, from Twilight in Italy

Of here

Are they arriving or leaving?
Do they want to be here or hope 
to go somewhere else?

What is here? 

Is here the forefoot on the next step 
or the back foot, the firm one?

"Ripresi via per la piaggia diserta,
sì che'l piè fermo sempre era'l più basso."

"I set off across the deserted slope,
my firm foot always the foot below."

Because it points elsewhere, hope 
does not have a here.

What is here? The deserted slope?
What is, so hopelessly, here?

Is here the blurry boy jumping
off the back of the cart? 

Is here the infant who is nowhere, 
as he sleeps in his mother's arms?

The mother, so graciously weary?
The oxen, castrated, unwilling to will?

By now it's clear that here isn't home. 
Is here where you stop and restore
before leaving again?

Is here where a tree is, 
in the form (or not) of a crucifix?

--Stefan Balan