Yearning follows me like a shadow
a chain of memory that pulls me into the past.
I would like to cry.

When I think of my grandfather...

I hear his voice.
I see him sitting in his field,
proudly contemplating the infinite number of leaves.
He was like that.

Now he lies in foreign soil, in a foreign country.
I can hardly believe that he took leave of life.
I hear his dry voice.

I have seen countless fields,
but my grandfather’s field was the most beautiful.

I know that you put much love into this soil,
much work.
Oh, you did not know
that you would have to give it up,
the plants, the river.