In the small room I go through,
that I call my sprout room,
The heavy steps of many lives
tread in the heart of my moon.
They talk with me and my boots.
So, when I look back timorously
There are many green roots.
Some which are dark and the others light.
Exasperated mind, asking myself
If one is accompanying me in my fight
Then who is there that is out of sight?
There is no answer,
from a room full of nuts.
The light behind the sprout machine, is all alone
And what I hear is:
The sounds of the thousand good sprouts
Who are closer to me than moon light.
My soul or my sprouts
In an endeavor to find the truth,
I look toward what is behind and yet seen in the depths of the root.
I tell myself: This is the same thing which every night,
Travels toward the end of the world with my heart