Every summer they played the crickets, they played, they played for me - the songs collected from the field and from the fire on a summer day. The violins are gone now and so is quiet at home. They were here when Mum was wearing a motif in the evening. Does the earth or my son drown in me or something is already ruining, and at least one cricket has not passed my silence to drown. Do not I know the plain of love, brilliant with songs and bells? It is terrible that my home lost its most sincere singers. And my soul froze for a moment. Help me, mother-land. Ah, how do I want the crickets back home.