The fog’s beautiful,
on endless roads,
under the caressing
blades of grass.
Life’s sprouting.
I close my eyes.
Sun shines through it.
Surface of tiny puddles quakes.
The wrinkles of my hand,
The shining good of my face,
it’s all me.
Today forests surround me,
Trees grow up to the sky.
the blade of grass caresses me
under the slumbering life.
Man and God has created it.
We, men are Gods.
Our tiny little crumbs
grow up to the sky.
The thought charms a soul-pressing,
but still uplifting desire.
Today the blades of grass caress,
the sun reaches up to my face.
Everything that we create is ours.
The soul’s running on the plain.
Song of the tiny bird
is alive.
The creating pleasure
of your hand,
the power of your thought
gains a victory.
The castle’s being built.
Its heavy stones live
for thousand years.
Built by my father.
I’m being built.
The desire
is already alive
in my son.
Let’s build it higher!
Mum, your stones are still invisible!
Son! Year goes by.
I put down its stones
among the others
in its passing minutes.
When you can see,
the castle will be yours.
It’s beautiful! Isn’t it?
The constructing thought
has come by the fog.
It’s getting clear and bright in the sun.
Our castle on the hillock
is getting bigger and bigger.
It’s not a ruin,
and it’s not the nest
of young crows.
Eagles fly there.
They turn their heads
with dignity.
Their timeless flight
speaks to us.
Rise from below the fog.
Its soft, pulling back power
is still alive.
The trees above the fog
already reach up
to the sky.
The castle has become
full of life.
Its proud flag
let its sound be heard
in the wind.
The young eagle
asks for food.
Its gate is open.
The happy life is swarming.
Fish wife quarrels,
Gipsy girl foretells.
Her eyes
goggled at the sky
tells:
“Fly with the eagles!”
Today the young bird
wants only to eat.