I have been a digger of foreign wells
and a tiller of alien soil;
Until now.

There are oases
whose sand dunes silt in my eyes.
Hills have I terraced
whose logs float like jetsam in my soul.
I have been a maker of roads and bridges,
whose tar corrodes my blood.

Now, I am weary;
weary of digging wells
and felling trees
for others.

I have a well to dig for my own;
I need to cultivate my own garden.