I am grateful, violins, for this day of four chords. Pure is the sound of the sky, the blue voice of air...

Pardon:
Pardon me,
if when I want to
tell the story of my life
it's the land I talk about.
This is the land.
Of blue sky and thunder.
Its grows in your blood
and you grow.
If it dies in your blood
you die out.
On
the cold tower of the world.