This, this is the land that saw
father and mother live and thrive.
This is the land where countless ancestors
lived their hoary lives and died.
Thoughts a thousand grew
and flourished in this land.
In remembrance of it all
may I not praise my land?
Let me sing time and again
Mother, I bow to you.
Mother, I bow to you.
This, this is the land that gave us
birth and suck and the light of knowledge.
This is the land where our mothers
lisped their first words and grew in wisdom.
Here in their pure virgin girlhood
they danced and sang in abandon.
Here too in river or tank
they cooled their lustrous bodies.
In their memory I sing:
Mother, I bow to you.
Mother, I bow to you.
This, this is the land where, as young women,
our mothers married and reared their hearths.
'twas here, here they knew the rapture
of motherhood, the pride of children.
Here the people's greatness soared high above
in a prodigal spread of temples;
and when they ceased to be, the gentle dust
mingled with the holy mother earth.
In commemoration may I sing:
Mother, I bow to you.
Mother, I bow to you.
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