O country, O mother – you must weep
To see your young tortured to death
The chaos of families being separated
Cruelty personified for the sake of freedom
O the children, the peasants’ only riches
Who no longer are at their bosom
They cry into the dark, beating their hearts
Missing their blood sorely
She looks at her man for justice
Who in turn looks away disgraced
For his inability to protect his family
But he is already the living dead
Surely things can’t go so wrong
Didn’t the boy play the flute only yesterday?
A torn shirt showed his young muscles
O precious child- the hope of his aging bones!
He retires into the darkened hut
As she spits into the cold Himalayas
In disgust as her heart bleeds for her child.