The land of golden silt stands on bamboo stilts;
Weathered storms of deceit; stripped down to its reed.
It stands resolute – weakened, yet strongest at its root.
From its bosom rhythms wring – of joys, in tears, they sing;
Become anthems of nations fractured at its seams.
The land of crimson sun glows brightest on the down;
Pulls a fuchsia drape over its rapes – alone, it weeps.
Yet it cowers naught – it teaches lessons it was taught.
From its temples chants exhume – by sacrifice, immune;
Becomes inside in one – borders, mortars, hold none.
My land of hallowed green, of nourishing old streams;
Of kings of men and noblest beasts – of fields of grain,
And the grandest sea – May thy broken heart be healed.