I would go to my home in brown earth,
to my cabin by the Blodsten bog,
to the peace of the coves of my birth.
I would live on bread and water,
if only I could soon exchange
the city lights and hubub for the night
where the peaceful hours range.
I wish my way to the dale at Pajso,
to the grassy bog at So,
where the dark green depths of the forest
round the mossy fields do grow,
where the sedge grass stands in the meadow
where the springs purl white as milk
and the roots of the flora are woven
into fabric as fine as silk.
I long for the valley at Kango
where red heather adorns the earth
and its flames burn in silent resistance
to the threat of autumnal death –
where the lovely, spritely butterflies
hover on dust-covered wings
and the bumblebee laden with pollen
to the plants does firmly cling.
I wish to be back with poor people
who live by the sweat of their brow,
who labor in summer and battle
cold and misery in winter like now . –
I wish to be back where the clouds skim
through the sky where the stars also shine
and where wilderness rivers gush at whim
keeping time with these new songs of mine.