Your country is pain, is pain,
An April of sorrow in your soul,
Your country is the cross, the cross,
It holds, it holds you, too, in its soul.

Your country is the promised land,
You set foot as master, it slides from beneath you,
Your country has no words, has a sad gaze.
Its love dies in your obsession.

Your country is the food of the starving,
It slips from your hands and sates you not,
Dream and anguish and exhausted hope,
Its eyes in the dark search for themselves.

Your country is an open grave, a grave,
All your life you followed in good faith,
In a teardrop it drowns your tragic fate,
In a teardrop it births your freedom.

Your little country, so tiny,
That immortal divinity - that tear.