Sweep the steppes with winds of fury,
Down the orchards, fill the streams,
Cast aside all undertakings,
And creations, Roland’s dreams.
Suffer not the little children,
Nor their parents, nor their friends,
To renounce their innocence;
What will come when springtime ends?
Only one path leads to wisdom,
Grief and suffering line the way;
Suffer now the heat of wisdom:
Ride the sun, it’s Roland’s Day.
Now seek out the little children,
Sing their songs and play their games,
Look not in their eyes for sorrow,
For, behold, they have no names.
Find your peace, tranquility
Descends upon an autumn day,
Joy expressed in Roland’s laughter
Helps them find a better way.
Whither now the winds of fury?
All are gone, the lark remains,
And all across the sylvan meadow
Daisies grow ‘neath gentle rains.
ca 1981, for Roland