There is a beautiful land
small and poor
being alive there was such a miracle
staying alive pure magic.
Sorrow and hope were for free
A little blue bird grew up, flew away
Only in dreams does it wander back
to the broken hills.
Clouds of familiar faces comes a rollin’
soundlessly, endlessly in a black and white scenes
Don’t let them shake the bird of that tree
Even if the glory of dawn comes and goes
the fruit, unripe and sour, longs for more light