The memory of a wheat field

There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. Rain falling, a softened ground. Clouds flying low clinging. With the branches of trees harpooning them. In the moistness of a stray summer. With the gray and spellbinding sky.Mystifying any idea to rest itself. There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. With the diluted gold colors yellow. Undulating in the wind until death. Putrescent in the middle of the vapors. Oozing one day until the night. Bathing in a torpor. Fleeing at the end of the infinite one. By not being afraid more. Unhappiness and pity. There remains to me the memory of a wheat field. Randomly of a forced march. Under the rain of the summer. Without seeking to turn over me. To see to disappear. The phantom of a memory. Behind the dense fog. Of a last offense.