“Good health, oh field, oh name of S’Allapassa,
Sweet place, where our race
Has had its home for five-hundred years.
My song today will bless the earth
Of your ploughed fields, made by the ploughshares
Of our forefathers, who God has taken to their rest.
Here our feelings are not comforted
Nor do our minds soar, but rather there is the shelter
Of the peace of a pleasing austerity.
The song is humble, like a lark;
Your air gains scent in the night
From rosemary and thyme.
Summer gives us grains and fruit,
Christmas rings with sheep bells,
Easter is full with lilies in flower.
The honey from your bees is sweet and red
And the curlew’s song is beautiful
Through the night, under the canopy of the stars.
How great is the world! We cannot see the end…
Thickets, rocky ground… Groves
Where hares and rabbits hide out.
Beyond there are no houses:
Groups of pines, scraps of tended land
Roasted by the sun…”