And there is a river,
next to the grass,
where I lay to cry.
And there is a plant,
its stalk is green,
Its flowers grow in different colors.
And the river flows,
and takes parts of me, forever.

Turnips grow in the earth beside me,
their roots are long and deep.
Tied strongly to where they belong.
They ask me where I come from.
I come from her, I say.
They do not understand.

What it is to uproot,
and leave with the wind.
And be not a vegetable, nor a horse, nor a lost snake,
But a thing of life,
that carries death,
Its roots dangling in the wind,
without aim.