Nation of sun and sin,
Thy flowers and crimes are red,
And thy heart is sore within
While the glory crowns thy head.
Land of the songless birds,
What was thine ancient crime,
Burning through lapse of time
Like a prophets cursing words
Aloes and myrrh, and tears
Mix in thy hitter wine:
Drink, while the cup is thine.
Drink, for the draught is sign
Of thy reign in the coming yearn.
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