To be estranged from what was once dear land,
bereft and orphaned, herded now like beasts—
interred too deep, a silence creeps in stonehand.
They raze the stage; they rend the page — no land!
for freedom died, recoiling from false feasts,
To be estranged from what was once dear land.
Prepare your young with calloused, steadfast hand,
Eschew vain war, and ask who bears the least,
interred too deep, what silence creeps in stonehand?
As lies drip rot, not set in stone but sand,
pour out your time and doubt; leave not our priests,
To be estranged from what was once dear land.
With goods enclosed, with men exposed, a ban
on pipers’ call, until these demons ceased—
to breach the deep, as silence creeps in stonehand.
What hope, what love, what strength to make a stand,
O bless the martyrs’ wood held here at least.
To be estranged from what was once dear land,
interred too deep, a silence creeps in stonehand.
