I want to go, somewhere;
I want to take a journey,
make a move,
to a place, a place deep,
important.
But where?

Where could this place be
that I must go?
That I must forgo all else to go; this place,
for what it's worth,
I think I must surely go.
But again, where could this place be?

Is it an oasis, a paradise, or a place in heavenly island?
No; yet more precisely, a place soaked in turmoil,
down into the enclave of the soul;
wherefrom springs the tree bearing different fruits
in the middle of brushes of unknown parentages,
that abut at a hollow sphere.

Here, the waters dry up at the full blast of the harsh sun,
while the soil hardens as stone, always in the offseason;
in the sultry dark of its summer,
when heat waves melt all flesh,
the grounds crack up like splintered woods
wherein nocturnal birds of prey roost.

At this time, I must hasten down there,
when I get there, I shall circle the enclave.
I shall break down all fences for living waters to freely flow in
and the rivers of the ground shall rise again
to put the kibosh on the withering tree, watering its root,
that it may live and bear sweet fruits.

Yet again, I shall do battle:
I shall from their stumps uproot strange brushes,
I shall from their calamus deplume birds of prey,
I shall from the solar tone down the heat of the sun,
then shall I restore the enclave to salubriousness.