Agriculture

I have sown no wild oats,
Have tilled no black earth;
No mystery of Gaia
Surrenders to me.

The vine, date, and olive,
Oak and ash and thorn —
These mysteries are hidden,
I have lost them all.

But I have the black sauce,
And the seed of heat;
The noodle is summoned,
The dumpling is stewed.

I sit in the hot world.
The steam is rising,
The mineral rain falls
Into the sunlight.