I want to send a dream far from here.
The swallows fly high there.
Perhaps your wheat ripens
and through the yellow oceans of rye
a slow humming sound of bread can be heard.
This is a world of water and stones,
my hand is without bread and I count its lines.
To enjoy the beauty of the poem ,imagine vast brown fields of rye furroughed by the wind standing between you and the far horizon. Here you look at the empty lines on your palm which do not foretell bread but nothing prevents you ,surrounded though you are by water and stones ,from sending your dreams to the far off place which is full with golden-ripe wheat .”The humming sound of a bread can be heard” .Beautiful.