Thought, take to air on golden wings
and rest on hillsides and hills,
where distant and tender breezes blow,
sweetly scented of native land!
Greet the banks of Jordan
and the smashed towers of Zion.
Oh my ever so beautiful yet lost homeland!
Oh ever so dear yet fatal memories!
Golden Harp of divinatory seers,
why is that you hang tacitly from the willow?
The memories within our hearts reignite and
tell us about by-gone times!
Oh similar to Jerusalem by fate
fraught with cruel sounds of lament.
May the Lord inspire judgement
so that virtue may be instilled!