Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed, The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
These singers have lost their hopes and dreams.
They follow the voice of the wind.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow? Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
Their stories evince the dead cities, the joy of beautiful women and the braveness of old kings.
They recall the past in their stories.
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
All the people are their relatives.
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
The wandering singers go where the voice of the wind calls them.
WHERE the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
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