Now, right now in this great new country

Of sand, mud, grass and gold lives the lone horse.

He writes in a language not his own,

He talks about simple things that all know,

He likes the soil, the trees, the winds, men.

He sees them all with joy and knows them all,

He feels the way lies in singing about these.

He cries hard: ‘talk less and ring your talents more’

But those around him thrive, complaining louder:

‘Oh the national culture is not unearthed;

Oh the world laughs at our glorious imitations;

Oh our folk tales linger cold and untold;

The rhythm of our music is unique,

It works wonders deep in us but spurned.

Our nation's history has too few chroniclers.’

Yes, a band of doleful owls who sadly wail

While they hide edgeful knives that cut neat,

That slit to bits the papers of morons

Who've not had twenty years of deep schooling,

And if Western nations are fast ahead

And only experts know how to catch up

With them, what now have these experts done for us?

Such as these, except the few, do nothing;

They've big heads for books, small minds to create,

Loud-voiced pontiffs who talk and never scratch.

The lone horse living among these giants has

Success in his head, failure in his heart—

His way to achieve is to neigh crooked!