I take my flute, so long in slumber lying,
And try once more to make its voices heard;
Will they suffice, those shining thoughts and words,
Will its benevolent song soar, smoothly flying?
And I begin to play, with some fear lying
On me, though the song as of old is stirred
Chimes like breeze through the heather, and like bird
Its trills with the sweet nightingale are vying.
And still I wonder, how my song will seem, though,
To kinsmen-neighbours? Will they bless it, say?
Or in the bog to drown cast it away?
Yet, as my path I wander, sadly dreaming,
I shall play loud 'midst nightmare's secret looming,
For native land, my mother, I shall play.
1918