I mourn for the loss of the land of my fathers

Sad, sad it is the day when we look
upon our native land which we held in so high regard

O, the sweet continent,
where like a nursurey we were raised up to the skies

The sun he is crying
The moon she is crying

O, now we look and see pestilence where once grew light
The shadow so evil knows no limit to its hunger

Will it ever recede?
Will we ever win back?

I look at history and see a slow decine
Yes, peaks there were, and still are, but the ground below fell apart

But as this I lamented, throwing my tears to the wind

Could it be?
Could I be so blessed?

The voice of Wotan, he spoke from on high
From Asgard, Elysium, the top of The Tree

“O son of my race, do be not afraid
For Now I shall tell you of glorious ways
The soldier so righteous shall stand up and fight
And destroy the vermin with glory and might”

The clouds closed, I looked around and saw decay
But I was not sad, I was no longer mournful

Indeed the day will come,
as sure as the sun will rise

When we will all stand up
and gain back our birthright

Hail Europa!
Hail Wotan!

Hail and Victory!
The Light shall shine on!

Note: I edited the poem slightly to clean up the punctuation and remove the word “Father,” which I was afraid could have been misinterpreted for the Christian God, when in fact it was a reference to Wotan/Odinn/the supreme Pagan God

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