On and on they march
Over Neringa quicksands,
Bent and sped on by the westerner,
Tall, speechless and boughless pine trees,
With crowns tossed and shaken
Burdened with the storm's wailing and the seagulls' sobbing.
Like ancient rust-eaten statues -
A multitude sombre and silent -
They march on, Neringa pines,
Over the quicksand landward,
My sisters
Tall.