I will remember you, motherland
I will remember you motherland, when my days are gone. I shall remember the sweet sun that burned bright on our oiled backs, the old sun that decided never to set, to stay and let us play all day. I will remember them, your young men, those we used to play with all day, roll in the dust and fight, love and hate. I shall remember the moments when we believed in life and in love. I shall sing of thee, my motherland, you who suckled us on your old, withered breasts, you who whipped us and took care of our little wounds every day. I will remember you, lovely home, you who condoled with us when we died inside, you who wept with us and smiled with us. I shall leave someday and wander away, for a lion that grows around his father will never roar, and a chick that grows along his father will never get to crow. Chin up, motherland, for here you go unforgotten, here you are, not written with ink but carved with thorns, thistles and sharp stones in my heart. I shall sing of thee till my voice grow hoarse, then I shall sing even more. Nourish me now, give me drinks and food. Rain on me, and make my soil soft. Set me free, motherland. Let me grow and become tall. Allow me to drink from your roots and feed on your leaves. Applaud me when flowers start growing on my back and prune my branches when they become too wide, for it is I, motherland, who owns the strings and the drums. It is I who bears the canvas and the colours. It is my old backpack that wields the ink and the quilt. When I sit down to write about thee, I shall remember it all. I shall sit in the halls alone and look up the sky. I shall need you and cry for you when I should. I will, motherland, stand by the roads and cry for she that I left miles away. I shall bask in your glorious presence in my head and cry myself to sleep when I think of you. I shall remember you when the first rains hit the dusty ground and when the last embers of the sun die into the cold arms of the night. I shall remember you, motherland, for in me you go unforgotten. You are the song of the young birds learning to fly, the tear of the clouds when their weight gets too heavy for them. I shall remember you, sacred motherland, for you are the first thing I saw when my eyes opened and the last when they choose to close. It is love motherland, and mine is like the hot springs. It knows no rain or drought. It will always be there for you.
I will remember you motherland, when my days are gone. I shall remember the sweet sun that burned bright on our oiled backs, the old sun that decided never to set, to stay and let us play all day. I will remember them, your young men, those we used to play with all day, roll in the dust and fight, love and hate. I shall remember the moments when we believed in life and in love. I shall sing of thee, my motherland, you who suckled us on your old, withered breasts, you who whipped us and took care of our little wounds every day. I will remember you, lovely home, you who condoled with us when we died inside, you who wept with us and smiled with us. I shall leave someday and wander away, for a lion that grows around his father will never roar, and a chick that grows along his father will never get to crow. Chin up, motherland, for here you go unforgotten, here you are, not written with ink but carved with thorns, thistles and sharp stones in my heart. I shall sing of thee till my voice grow hoarse, then I shall sing even more. Nourish me now, give me drinks and food. Rain on me, and make my soil soft. Set me free, motherland. Let me grow and become tall. Allow me to drink from your roots and feed on your leaves. Applaud me when flowers start growing on my back and prune my branches when they become too wide, for it is I, motherland, who owns the strings and the drums. It is I who bears the canvas and the colours. It is my old backpack that wields the ink and the quilt. When I sit down to write about thee, I shall remember it all. I shall sit in the halls alone and look up the sky. I shall need you and cry for you when I should. I will, motherland, stand by the roads and cry for she that I left miles away. I shall bask in your glorious presence in my head and cry myself to sleep when I think of you. I shall remember you when the first rains hit the dusty ground and when the last embers of the sun die into the cold arms of the night. I shall remember you, motherland, for in me you go unforgotten. You are the song of the young birds learning to fly, the tear of the clouds when their weight gets too heavy for them. I shall remember you, sacred motherland, for you are the first thing I saw when my eyes opened and the last when they choose to close. It is love motherland, and mine is like the hot springs. It knows no rain or drought. It will always be there for you.
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