Land lost. Land of me. Home to dreams.
The dreams have gone and she has turned into dreams.

Land of milkers, millers, fishers and wickerwork weavers.
Of plows pulled by oxen and hayricks.
Of white mulberries and black poplars.
Of farmyards teeming with happy-go-lucky children.
Of religious processions and political rallies.

Land lost. Land of me. Home to time.
The time has gone and she has turned into time.

Land of flooding sunshine and unremitting hoarfrost.
Of honey dawns and amber sunsets.
Of hectic days and peaceful evenings.
Where once people were at one with remembrance
memories drift in search of recollectors.