Birds singing in the Hamlet there,
us, we know not much of it in sight,
you who only breathe plastic air,
of which we live in with darkened nights and days of dull light.
Who goes there, all but the Man,
without doubt where nature’s wings flap rapidly in our absence,
impatiently you of hardened soul inquire where is this land?
The juicy, green grass of the Hamlet need not serve you, Man is the nuisance.
Though what may the judgment be which the gallant lioness presents
Man itself chooses to live the life of others,
glowing with glory, the while stallion awaits Him, its life He resents.
So why does Man torture himself, you, Man, ride to the Hamlet, where live God’s most loved powers.
