As I look over the fields of spring buttercups
I remember my motherland
I would have spilt blood for her
But instead chose exile
As I could no longer feel
The bruised soil of my fathers
AW 1938
As I look over the fields of spring buttercups
I remember my motherland
I would have spilt blood for her
But instead chose exile
As I could no longer feel
The bruised soil of my fathers
AW 1938