It burns in the south, the wind
is hungry, its tongues of fire
lick the wood of the earth and
eat themselves to rich countries

while behind our backs in the north
the ice is melting and milliliters of water
are cutting thin slices off our country
and our prosperity, like sharpened steel

Yet I will, yet I want, yet I must
maintain it, if I can, if they let me
these frightened blonde giants here
who count back generations

to the great taciturn man
Father of the Nation and beggar
my example and ancestor
(one percent of my genes)

which means nothing, but
his expensive coat of blue blood
does matter, and the blazing fire
that makes me think of his death