These heights, these hills, where we’ve come to rest from fear.,
Shaker, Forest, Cherry, Bloomfield, Woodland, Crown,
just rented air; we will not replace you here.

Maybe these ridges will help us disappear,
or see you marching from a neighboring town,
where sight of these hills won’t let you rest from fear.

Where we were for years and then we never were.
Pinsk, Trachenbrod, Radzilow, Nizhyn, Savran—
leave the trees bare; we will not replace you here.

What’s new about the news is that now it’s near.
No, we just forgot that shirt-wise brown is brown,
words do burn, and we can see the rest from here.

We will move on, hope a tricky souvenir.
What then with your native frown, your father’s gun?
When we go, our gone will not replace your fear.

Saint Peter, his ample nose, his soured ear—
What if he just has rules, not favorite sons?
Last height, last hill, last hour to own the fear
then get in line; we will not replace you here.