I put away my clothes.
As an onion husk.
I don’t need any hopes.
They all for cowards are.
I’ve ripened, I want to motherland.
Over the river there my house reigns.
And the sun almost always is high there,
And if goes down – then rises again.
I’m ripe as a seed by autumn.
And I grow to the sky through the roofs.
I want freedom and rest – And I’ll go
Back to valleys of love, to be sure.