Оригинален текст
A good name pitched into the soil.
Tear the land with the shovel, with the spade, with the towel, with the hand, and cache this crown in a mount of wet winter earth.
A sole display for our troubles endured. Neither stone, nor post, nor flower shall serve or burden the beholder with ornament or reminder.
And the neighbors do protest, "You'll reap no greater harvest."
But it's never for the profit of the crop nor the grace of the garden that I this name commit to a Georgia red clay ditch.
To shed all supposition and disappointment I sow these seeds of my desired end.
To be nameless and faceless, oh what a weightless blessing to receive.
We give ourselves the small attempts to share with you our souls, but if she doesn't trust anybody I hope no one ever trusts her again.
Waiting too long to say what you mean and give looks their intentions.