When the cold soil became a maternal womb for me, where were You?
When I ploughed the earth from within to see the sun, where were You?
It was You who buried me, it was You who drove the nails into my coffin, looking down from above, as the living look at the dead.
I sank my roots into the soil so passionately that my crown eclipsed the sun. I absorbed the moisture of the earth so greedily that royal peacocks envied the span of my branches.
So why do you, like ravens, want to build nests on my pasture? Why do you stretch your oily fingers toward my tree? To pluck a leaf from my gardens? To bite off a piece of my fruits? Have mercy! Have mercy! On yourselves, for now I am in the favor of the Sun.