Do you tell me to set my roots into air?
Tell me, where had the procession of trees ever
Raised the slogan of storm and seized the blue sky
With their palms, being isolated from the soil?
Do you call it living? Such a continual isolation
Of a tree from the soil, is it the name of living?
Think of that soil, on whose bosom there exist
No trees, no carpets of herbs, leaves and grass,
Where no farmers come ever taking their plows
To sing the song of crops and no birds come
To fill the arteries of wind with the song of blood,
Where only the dust and the sand round the year
Mourn and scream soundless like a grave;
Do you want to be such a soil, such a waste land?
O my Soil, I will give you forests, a vast world
Of eternal green where animals roam, birds crowd
And chirp; I will give you clouds, rains and storms
Of peace if you, loving me, devour all my roots.
