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Oh, land of yearning, soil of the pandemic,
Across your bereaved fields, a lone wanderer carries
His tattered garment of helplessness,
In his steps echoes the cry of the land that cannot comprehend him.
Through your white villages, withered by time and forgetfulness,
The divine vagabond leaves his unseen tracks,
Heavy, laden with hopes, beneath the cross he bears,
His laments murmur in the air between houses bitten by time.
With a beggar's sack, poverty his cloak and miracles few within,
He diligently gathers the child's smile, the morning dew,
The tear of the old woman marooned on the threshold,
While shadows of greedy ghosts spread over abandoned roads.
With wind-like steps and a soul of song,
His unsigned blessings fall upon fields and troubled hearts,
In a profound silence, begging for light and peace,
Today, through taverns and lanes, God wanders.
It's an endless market of fates and sufferings,
A field of bird song, who’ve forgotten their country,
Oh, my land with beggars instead of vultures, with strangers instead of saints,
Where God roams begging, with a forgetful man's sack through time.
And standing watch over wildernesses and springs,
He waits, in hiding, to see the soil catch new flames,
To lift his children again from the heavy hoarfrost of the long night
And for the tapestry of life to awaken, in songs of remembering and plentiful harvest,
Oh, my land, your holy bones remain the seeds of tomorrow.

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