Driving through the countryside of Spain
The hills rose enough to be covered in snow,
But not enough to be called mountains.

Small houses perched like sparrows
And the grass was well-cut by sheep.
These animals were the life of the mountains.

Yet grey clouds hung like wet clothes in Spain,
Bringing light mist to kiss away the snow,
But not enough to drown the mountains.

I called this land my home somehow
And the Spanish life permeated my soul.
These people were the happiness of the mountains.

It was the silence that sung to Spain,
The tranquility that froze in the snow,
But not enough to save the mountains.