Imagination

We are but the angels of our skies, We see only the land sculpted by our winds, We hear only the melody of our singing, There is nothing but the breath of spring. Little, winged bird whispering in my heart, Open your small beak to sing, Sing of the fantasies of your homeland, Tell me what to bring forth to my sky. A silent breath comes from afar, It brings forth a chilly cold; The year grows older and older, Our skies grow only bluer and bluer.