Globe turned between two hands,
first grasp of how small this isle
pushed away, alone, always
that head scrubbed by cold water,
flesh flayed with rivered veins,
mountains torn from valleys filled
to flooding, grass greening a back
beaten by rain, forever the sky
scanned for moon or star to light
the earth, light on lost children,
remind them where home is. Proud,

too proud, it’s caterwaul crazed,
a riot born, rabble-rousing rock
to live on, dreaming of warmth
drenched in sand, a drought blazing
bright colours, fine cloth, a hand
to hold, held out, holding out,
hanging on till the boat brings
the weary across the water,
brings back news, people chattering
sweet native tongues salt with ideas,
a flame in the blood sparked off.

It’s all grist, a spinning-top hum
of one world, the beat of one
old heart. Here is to belong,
where a wet wind can wipe off
the dust of wandering, snow
that could melt with the welcome.
It’s not far to a fireside yet,
kindling stacked, hot soup in the pot,
the clock that chimes quiet time,
a smoke, drink glowing in the glass,
that door always unlocked.

Sang fur the Wandert
translated into English by the author