- cifra
Here beside me, under endless howling winds
My dying race is wandering homewards
Led by an old man to shores. That don't exist
Just emptiness remains
On and on goes our march gruesome as the
Light of Sun, cold as winds that hide in me
Hour after hour, day after day my lullaby is
Turning and falls gently on this sleeping land
Like a hawk trembling of hunger and like a
Burning source
Two years have passed and still my race is
Wandering through foreign shores
Homewards
My soul is now formed as a knife forwards
The heart of your heaven
And so I die
Still my folk keeps on marching
Homewards
