With every song of a spring bird,
with every rustle of a summer tree,
with every drop of autumn rain,
with every snowflake of a winter blizzard,
I will remember the thought of thee.
You live in my veins.
Your very image runs
in my blood, and
rebuilds my body
from the metallic ruins,
grey ashes and the golden sand,
which burned in fury.
O I still remember
the day when these great
mountains swayed
in the fiery amber,
each waiting like hopeless bait
in the predator’s shade.
However, despite all the pain,
despite all the grief,
you don’t remember them as victims,
the mountains are not just a bloodstain,
or a dead leaf,
but each soul is an eternal poem...
