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...