That strange proud nation

That strange proud nation
Occupied by assassin bodies
Of sharp solitude and paths
Rose-like open along the grass
Blind nation, in a goddess’ rites
Where blind pilgrims come,
Where sad destinies are born
And scores of years of generous defeat
Of love it was called nation. Hard
Unfaithful to hearts’ pain,
Rewriting the pages of History.
The one uprooting fragrance, heeded laughs
And passions from the purest word,
Then drink the nectar of recollections

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