The land he flows in, men sing songs of freedom
Their wives enjoy the fruit of fertility
Like curves drawn on an oil canvas,
The land he flows in, is in seamless asymmetry
His land doesn't hold the weight of
Crooked machinery and obese buildings,
He flows only to see the sky bright with stars
And touch the arms of a green field
The land he flows in is happy, in an old customed routine
In stories of ancestors and grains of yesterday
Until a boy decides he wants more,
More for him and his land
More for the world around him,
What a wretched life in a wretched society!
He turns the river red