Go, thought, on golden wings.
Go, let me place you on the slopes, on the hills,
where the sweet breezes of the native soil smell warm and soft!
He greets the banks of the Jordan,
The fallen towers of Sionne.
O my homeland, so beautiful and lost!
O remembrance, so dear and fatal!
Golden harp of the fateful poets,
why does it change from the willow tree? >draw a sound of raw lament;
or may the Lord inspire you with a concentration
that instills virtue in suffering
that instills virtue in suffering
that instills virtue in suffering
Go, thought
Go, thought
Go, thought

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