To my old homeland I return again
enshrouded by autumnal fragrance.
Blood trickling down from bleaking woods
to the drenched soil - squandered - and seeps away.

On the field through [bad word]  [bad word] an eminence grise
strides, scattering ash on fallen heroes.

Is he the spirit of forgotten ancestors
which takes charge of a conquered land?
Is it in his mind to end up [bad word] 
which dominated the last centuries?

He should be [bad word] 
of our blood enforced with
honor and strength of old days.

He wields his ceptre, ash eclipses sunset
 [bad word] silence over this decease.
It makes me shudder in consideration
of this deed of the source of all fullfillment.

I retreat and bow down in reverence
for the new sovereign.