In a hungry and such ill captivity
There's no day as day,year as year.
When will fields bring up their yielding,
When will the slave-people breathe freely?
In summertime,as usual,in darkness
There rustle,standing straight or bending lowly,
Under the secret wind all crops high:
It's time to flowering, time to blossoming.
The people is the wreath of earthly flowers,
The beauty and nice pleasure of them all:
No one for sure could escape from a God's summer,
Which's good for all-well for us also.