The sower walks down the even furrows;

his fathers all furrowed the path he follows.

The young seed glitters gold in his hand,

but it must fall into the black ground.

There, amid the tunnels of the blind worm,

it will die on its due day—and grow again.

So now my soul treads the path of the grain—

down into darkness—and spring’s return.

And you, my people, and you, my native land,

you will die and live, when the dark months end,

for we have been granted only this one truth:

whatever lives must follow the grain’s path.