I come down from the mountains, / The valley dims, the sea roars.
I wander silently and am somewhat unhappy, / And my sighs always ask "Where?"
The sun seems so cold to me here, / The flowers faded, the life old,
And what they say has an empty sound; / I am a stranger everywhere.
Where are you, my dear land? /Sought and brought to mind, yet never known,
That land, so hopefully green, / That land, where my roses bloom,
Where my friends wander / Where my dead ones rise from the dead,
That land where they speak my language, / Oh land, where are you?
I wander silently and am somewhat unhappy, / And my sighs always ask "Where?"
In a ghostly breath it calls back to me,
"There, where you are not, there is your happiness."
Georg Philipp Schmidt von Lübeck
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