I never thought I would own a cabin.
In front there's a great pile of rocks,
some smooth and dark, hatched from the fertile soil,
some rough and imperfect, as if from the sky.
All around is quiet, like when a house
is just completed. The rocks are just leftovers
but still somehow captivating. A huge heap
perhaps enough to throw together a wall.
You don’t know how tired I am, and
you don't know where the stones are from.
Just recall the old saying about the Midas touch,
and don't try to guess what I have in mind.
All I want to do now is to take one stone
and return it to where it belongs, regardless
whether its smooth and chipped, happy or lonely:
if I’m sincere, the stone will leap!