Mourn in dews is marching, singing lullaby,
And the way’s appearing as a magic line.
As my happy childhood, as my painful good-by,
As an ever-silent sadness long of mine.

Oh my blooming land, endless fretful road,
You’re an immortelle, thunders which are near.
I will bring my heart to your very threshold,
As your drop of blood, as your lonely tear.

And when I’ll be bended after fighting sway,
Let all winds be furious, lightning – be a spear!
I’ll call native steppes, willows on the way,
And my soul’s relieved by a virgin tear.