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� We ask of all graceful, how plainly to speak,
� The heart who we pray, it has language for me.
� Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
� A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
� The friends of my childhood again are before me,
� Each step rates of memory as free,
� Many I know, with soft whispers later,
� Its leaves rustle on me,
� The astro, the astro, alone is my home.
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Oh, friends of my childhood, I cannot be phobic.
Each step, which a memory hurts freely, I know.
With soft whispers later, it leaves rustle on me.
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
*
