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.

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