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Rambling in my hometown

There's shimmer in the clouds and glitter in the lake
there's light over shores and isthmuses*
and around me the lovely forest stands green
behind the swaying grass of the meadows
 
And with summer and beauty and chords of the forest wind
my homeland stands and greets me, happy
greetings! but where is my father's farm
there is nothing behind the row of maples
 
It is empty, it is brunt, it is ravaged and barren
where it used to be, the bedrock lays bare
but over it the memory walks with the wind so cool
and that memory is all that is left
 
And it is I who saw a white gable
and an open window inside
it sounded like piano and a cheerful part
of a song with a pretty melody
 
And it is as if it were my father's voice
when he was still happy and young
before the song became quiet in his sick chest
and his existence became sad and heavy
 
It is empty, it is brunt, I want to lie down
by the lake to hear his speech
about the old, about what passed, while time went on
about the old in Alstern's valley
 
And he says his sad and rippled answer
as weakly as if it were dreamt:
"It was thrown to the wind twenty long years ago,
it is dead and buried and forgotten
 
Where you remember dear figures and visions
emptiness now stands, deserted and barren
and my eternal lullaby is all there is left
of the old in Alstern's valley"
 
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Strövtåg i hembygden

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