The most beautiful fir tree I ever saw
was a freedom tree, 40 feet tall,
at a shooting festival, with purple ribbons fluttering way up high,
clear waves flowing from its trunk.

From four pipes the living spring was flowing
into the round bowl of chiselled granite;
Tanned marksmen were crowding around it,
waving their silver goblets.

The crowd became a mass
from everywhere men's choirs were heard;
A scorching July sun filled the skies,
shining brightly in praise of my fatherland.

Amidst the crowd, close to the bowl's rim,
I sang out loud, a boy of fifteen years,
At the far side of the spring
there stood a tender maid of Romansh tongue.

She came from the Grisons' last valley,
her dark braids adorned with Alp Roses.
She was filling the goblet her father had won,
her eyes shining like starry nights in summer.

Undisturbed, filled with the calmness of a child,
she let the water flow over the beaker's rim,
watched the sun's reflection in it
until she felt like pouring it out again.

When she saw me she merrily threw
a rose she had picked from her hair into the well,
stirred the water and made it ripple
until I happily reached out for the flower greeting.

It was then that I felt the young urge for freedom,
the love for my fatherland well up in my heart;
My boy's chest heaved and hurt -
like a springtime storm blowing through tall fir trees.