Baskadia

This land you step on

Was a mother to all.

But slowly by slowly

It is tired.

At sunrise,

It was strong and healthy

Like a blooming flower shrub

In the morning glory.

As the sun

Rose up the sky,

It grew weary and faded;

Folding and withering.

At sunset

It was no more;

Blown away by wind

And the watchful gods gone.