Essences of the peoples’ beautiful selves,
Violins whose strings quiver
With long, soft, delicate harmonies—
Even when touched by the world’s rough fingers,
Even when touched by Grief’s cold fingers—

Think of the day when you, sleeping in your graves,
Shall be awakened by the thunder of your own voices
And by the strong, cool winds of your own music:
For in the fertile soil of the years
Your voices will blossom and become thunder,
Your music will become winds that purify and create.