THE HORSEMAN'S SONG 

  



Galloping from farthest Asia, 



jutting into the Mediterranean like the head of a mare, 



           this country is ours. 



Wrists in blood, teeth clenched, feet bare 



and the soil beneath like a silk carpet, 



           this hell, this heaven is ours. 



Close the gates of dependance, never to be reopened, 



eliminate man's servitude to man, 



           this invitation is ours. 



To live single and free like a tree 



and in brotherhood like a forest, 



           this longing is ours.