Do you tell me to set my roots into air?
Say, when and where did the procession of trees
raise the slogan of storm and seize the blue of the sky
with their palms, being isolated from soil?
Do you call it living? Say, this continual isolation
of a tree and soil, is it the name of living?
Think of that soil, o Love, on whose breast
there exist no trees, no carpet of herbs, leaves and grass,
where no farmer comes ever taking his plow
to sing the song of crops and no bird comes
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.
© Sayeed Abubakar