By landscape reminded once of his mother's figure The mountain heights he remembers get bigger and bigger: With the finest of mapping pens he fondly traces All the family names on the familiar places. In a green pasture straying, he walks by still waters; Surely a swan he seems to earth's unwise daughters, Bending a beautiful head, worshipping not lying, "Dear" the dear beak in the dear concha crying.
Under the trees the summer bands were playing; "Dear boy, be brave as these roots," he heard them saying: Carries the good news gladly to a world in danger, Is ready to argue, he smiles, with any stranger. And yet this prophet, homing the day is ended, Receives odd welcome from the country he so defended: The band roars "Coward, Coward," in his human fever, The giantess shuffles nearer, cries "Deceiver".